Three Heads of the Dragon 2: A Realm of Ashes
by Rougeification
Summary: SYOC. War in the North. War in the South. The death of King Rhaegon and his firstborn, Draegor, has left the realm in chaos. The Targaryens fight each other, the North fights itself, and across the Narrow Sea, exiles and villains scheme in the shadows. Submission Form on Profile.
1. The Dragon

**If you're new to this collection of stories, please read** _ **A Crown of Bones**_ **(aCoB) first – you won't really understand this story if you don't.**

 **First off, let me thank all you great followers and reviewers. I got over 4,000 views on** _ **A Crown of Bones**_ **(aCoB), and a staggering 112 reviews! That's seriously amazing, thank you all so so SO much! I hope to get the same standard for this story, if not more.**

 **I got a lot of positive feedback on aCoB – especially on the sick and twisted bits as well as the plotting, but mainly the big Game-of-Thrones twists. Thankfully, nearly all of you understand I need to have some quiet chapters to set up the twists. This story will have a few more than aCoB.**

 **So, this takes place two weeks after** _ **A Crown of Bones**_ **. As you can guess, nothing major has happened yet.**

 **Rylon Baratheon – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

Traitors. Oathbreakers. Men without honour. There weren't enough Gods above that I could curse to for the treasonous men that dragged me through the stone corridors. Strange… I never thought the castle I'd called 'home' for decades could be so cold. I yearned for Storm's End. For those raging downpours and cracks of thunder and lightning. For my daughter in my arms. Even Ryleigh. No matter how small and skinny he was.

I cursed myself. I'd spent all those years wishing he could be more like his brother – a proud member of the Kingsguard. In the past two weeks of being chained in the darkness of the dungeons, I waited for him to find me. I waited for my eldest son to come for me and tear me from the chains. Yet, when the Kingsguard clad in silver came for me, I only found Ser Howland Swann. A man who I'd known since he was a babe – a man I had appointed to the Kingsguard myself.

I was thrown to the floor in Rhaegon's room. Only, Rhaegon did not lie in bed, ill and meagre. Nor did Vysella, with her beautiful pointed features and lopsided smile. No, instead, Aeron sat in his chair, one leg crossed over the other as he read a book. He glanced up at me for a second before looking down to his book and reading for another moment.

"You treasonous leech!" I bawled, getting to my legs to run at him. I'd tear him apart. For what he had done to me! For what he had done to my daughter, to my friend, Vysella. But, as I did so, Ser Howland grabbed me by the neck, and threw an armoured fist into my nose. I felt it crack, and blood coated my tongue as I folded onto the ground.

"It is customary to kneel, Lord Hand." Ser Howland informed me.

"He's not Lord Hand, Ser Howland," Aeron replied, still looking at the book, "well, at least he isn't if he keeps that tone." Aeron put down his book and examined me. "You may rise, My Lord."

Ser Howland picked me up, "I'll cut you down, bastard!" I roared at him, with only Ser Howland to me back.

"There's the famous Baratheon temper." Aeron chuckled. "Ours is the Fury!" He sneered. "Gods, how expectedly dull. I would have invited you to my coronation but… well, I thought you might do something like this." As Aeron walked, I saw him pick up a belt that held a sheathed sword. The hilt was dark as night, with a ruby encrusted into the pommel. Blackfyre. Draegor's sword. "It was a very nice affair. I allowed Delyth to arrange it. Gods, the woman has a very nice taste."

"You sicken me." I growled. "I should have ridden to the Vale and throttled you at your mother's breast."

"Perhaps." Aeron exhaled heavily. "No doubt you would have done the same to my mother."

"The whore Baelish?"

"And there lies the difference. No doubt you're fully justified in your hatred of me, as I am to you. And to Viserys and the harlot, Haylise." I clenched my fist at the mention of my daughter. I felt my nails dig into my skin, wishing his neck was inside my hand. "But, I will not punish your sons for your transgressions. Baldinar has been a loyal member of the Kingsguard for five long years. Upon news of Draegor's death, he was one of the first to bend the knee and swear fealty."

"Baldinar would never do such a thing." I growled. "He'd never serve a pretender like you."

"He'd do what his oath dictates. He is a knight of the Kingsguard before he is a Baratheon. You know the oath, My Lord." Aeron fastened the belt around his waist.

The door sounded with a knock, and Ser Mikal Drake entered, his steel armour glistening in the light of the day. A long, heavy scar sat across his face, separating his sapphire eye from the emerald. On the side of his face, the hair had been shorn, revealing a heavy scar that dug into his head as if a blade had penetrated the skull itself.

"Your Grace." He bowed his head.

"Ser Mikal. You're a tad early… no mind." Aeron smiled at me. "Lord Baratheon, you're familiar with Ser Mikal."

"Whoreson dog." I snarled at him. "I'd give my life to drive a sword through your skull!"

"Your favoured Ser Richard Dayne tried." Aeron picked up a cup of wine. "But loyal Ser Mikal prevailed." Aeron turned to Ser Mikal, "One moment, Ser." Aeron turned back to me. "My father is dead. As is my brother. Viserys and your traitorous daughter have fled the capital. I offer you a chance to bend the knee and proclaim me the one true King."

"Rot in hell!" I tried to lunge at him, only to have Ser Mikal grab my arm and pull me back, holding me in place. "You are no King of mine! You're no true Targaryen… just an up-jumped bastard from the Vale!"

Aeron's smile flickered away for a moment, and the cup in his hand shivered. "Out of respect for your family's service, I will offer you one last chance. I will show you mercy, and send you to the Wall."

"Take your offer and shove it up your bastard arse!" I shouted at him. Aeron nodded, tutting.

"Ser Mikal." Aeron nodded. Ser Howland held my chains wrists above my head and to the bedpost as Ser Mikal removed a small dagger. "Ser Mikal told me a story, My Lord." Aeron moved to sit down again, pouring more wine into his cup. "You see, he was in love once. To a woman, here in King's Landing. I do believe that some of your honourable men were involved. Is that right, Ser Mikal?"

"They murdered her." Ser Mikal growled at me. "They butchered her without cause."

"Lies." I growled. "My men have been defending the Realm in the Stormlands!"

Aeron tutted again, "You offend Ser Mikal's honour." He nodded at Ser Mikal, who raised the knife to my throat.

"You kill me," I shouted at him, fear gripping my voice, "and my son will march on King's Landing!"

"Your son?" Aeron looked puzzled, thumbing his chin as he furrowed his brow. "Oh!" He laughed, "little Ryleigh? I somehow doubt that… Ser Mikal. I believe you've waited long enough for satisfaction."

 **Ser Mikal Drake – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

It felt good. Watching the knife break through the fucking man's throat. Setting the blood free, watching it pour from his throat like a scarlet waterfall. There hadn't been enough Baratheon blood spilt. As I watched it seep down to the floor, the colour drain from Baratheon's face and his eyes grow wide, I felt the hole of fury in my stomach sate.

Daisy was avenged. I still remembered finding her, clutching her womb, face filled with horror and disbelief. I remembered sitting there in the street, holding her body for what felt like an eternity; some small part of me hoping that I could keep her soul tethered to her body. That the Gods themselves would take pity and return her to me.

Six long years I'd been waiting for vengeance. Six long years since I'd found the man. A filthy fucking Baratheon soldier. He'd gotten away from it. Rylon was responsible. So was the whore Haylise. Every Baratheon cunt in Westeros. I'd destroy their house. I'd take everything away from them. And with Aeron in power, I'd taken the first step on my quest for vengeance.

"Well," Aeron stood up from his chair, pulling out his black cuffs from beneath his scarlet jerkin, "that was dreary…" He sighed, raising a hand to place on my shoulder.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

"These men believe their birth entitles them to everything." Aeron looked at the body which still oozed Baratheon blood. "He poisoned my father. Kept him ill so he could maintain control of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Rylon Baratheon did?"

"You know more than most how treasonous the Baratheons can be. Blood will tell."

Of course Rylon would have done this. The Baratheon bastard. He was a villain – they all were. With Aeron leading us, we would cleanse Westeros of the rats. And maybe then, I would sleep better.

"Clean this up, will you?" Aeron patted my shoulder before leaving the room, whistling a tune.

 **So, I feel like this was the best chapter to start off this instalment – I mean, look at the name. Anyway, hopefully this has helped to set the tone of this instalment. I've got some pretty good twists planned out for this story.**

 **I plan on it being a tad longer than** _ **A Crown of Bones**_ **. Anyway, please leave a review – the more reviews I get, the quicker I update. I'm always on the lookout for more characters. A Lord Mormont, a Lord Lannister… Kingsguard Knights, Maesters etc etc.**

 **Remember the rule: Only one submission per house. I've been known to make exceptions, but I'm pretty adamant about this rule.**

 **So, hope you guys enjoyed – see you next time!**


	2. The Wolves of Winter

**Hey guys, so I've got a few chapters to write until we reach Essos, and I'm still waiting to receive a character, so I'm moving around a couple of chapters.**

 **Also, I'd love an actual Lord Mormont – the reason why is because the other two Stark bannermen ('Redbeard' Cedric Glover and Ichabod Cerwyn) have some… issues with Markas' leadership. It'd be nice to have a fleshed out character that is of the other mind.**

 **Markas Stark – Hornwood, Hornwood Forest, The North**

It was a strange feeling. Watching all those lifeless bodies of boys and men. Two weeks of marching. We had already taken White Harbour from the Manderlys, and now we besieged Hornwood. Two of the Bolton's major houses would not be able to defend the dreadfort. Three days of bloody battles outside the walls before Lord Hornwood had called for an end to the bloodshed. I doubt he would have done so if he hadn't received a raven informing him about my victory at White Harbour and Oldcastle.

Upon taking White Harbour, I had offered peace to Chrys Manderly, allowing him to strike his banners and turn his men toward my cause. Redbeard Cedric had already been sent to besiege Hornwood, as I suspect he would have criticized my choice. Though, my plans had yielded fruit, as Hornwood left his castle to entreat a surrender with me.

Hornwood was led to my tent by an envoy of twenty men. Not enough to fight us all, and certainly not enough to protect him from my armies. However, it could be enough to allow Hornwood to retreat back into his castle if I did not honour the code of conduct. His men were weak – frail. After three days of constant barrages of arrows on their castle walls, I could see their morale had begun to fade. By the time of the battle this morning, my army cut through the Hornwood men with ease as they sullied out of the castle to repel us.

Hornwood had dark straight hair that fell past his shoulders. He was a lean man, in the fifth decade of his life. Clad in an orange surcoat over his chainmail, which adorned his House's sigil of a moose.

"Lord Hornwood." I nodded at him as he was shown into my tent, absent his men.

"Lord Stark." He nodded stiffly, eyes flickering to Redbeard Cedric, who sat with his mighty axe between his legs, wiping down the blade with a bloodied rag. His face was speckled with blood from the battle less than an hour ago, in which he had the led the forces and fought like a demon, breaking off from his men and falling upon Hornwood men like a cursed wave of fury.

"Why do you carry a blade, Jacke?" Redbeard asked him, standing up. "I thought this was a negotiation."

"I am Lord of Hornwood, Redbeard." Hornwood rested a hand on his hilt, "it is my right to carry a blade. Especially when my foes are so equally armed."

Before Redbeard could respond, I held up a hand to silence him, "I understand your caution, My Lord. But there's no need for fear here. No harm will come to you." I raised a hand to gesture to the bowl of bread and salt. Hornwood walked over to it, dipping the bread in salt and taking a bite. Upon doing so, his shoulders eased up and he let out a breath of relief. Redbeard growled to himself and leant back in his chair, though he did not remove his hands from his axe.

"You've come to offer terms of surrender?" Cerwyn asked from the other side of the table.

"Aye," Hornwood nodded, "my men are broken. I cannot hold the castle against your forces much longer. I plead mercy. Spare the lives of my men and my wife, and the castle is yours."

"What's to stop us from taking the castle by force?" Cerwyn asked. "It'll fall in the day if we keep up our assault."

"The Starks have long been honourable. Regardless of the actions of your father, Lord Stark, I choose to believe you could be more like the Starks we served for centuries."

"That didn't stop you from supporting the Boltons after Ben Stark's death." Cerwyn reasoned.

"Too bloody right." Redbeard snarled.

"I am sworn to the Boltons, Lord Stark." Hornwood stated. "Just as Cerwyn and Glover are sworn to you."

"The Boltons were sworn to my family." I retorted. "When they took up arms against us, they broke faith, and you were not beholden to your oath."

"My daughter, Alara, serves at the Dreadfort as a handmaiden of the Lady Theadosia."

"Fucking Thea…" Redbeard shook his head. I felt my throat clench at the very mention of the woman. I'd never seen her in my life, but I'd heard the horrific tales of her exploits. Everyone in the North had: The Bolton she-devil, clad in black and hunting man and animal alike. She feasted on the flesh of her kills, sometimes before slitting their throats. She bathed in blood, and worshipped to Demons and Gods of Death at an altar of bones.

"My Lord Hornwood," I walked around the table, "lay your sword at my feet. Proclaim me the True Warden of the North, and submit your men to my cause. I will give you fair treatment as my prisoner. You will be confined to Hornwood, your family home, under guard of my men. Once the War is won, you will be pardoned, and allowed to keep your lands and titles."

"What are you doing boy?" Redbeard stood up and barked into my ear.

"Mind your place, Redbeard."

"My Lord, I'd advise you seek counsel first…" Cerwyn tried to reason with me.

"My mind is clear, Lord Cerwyn." I turned back to Hornwood. "Do you agree?"

Hornwood drew his sword with his left hand, placing it at my feet and kneeling. "House Hornwood will stand behind House Stark, the true Wardens of the North. My home is yours, my men are yours, my sword is yours, in victory and defeat. From this day to my last day."

"Then rise again." Hornwood rose, and clasped my forearm, a flicker of hope and happiness in his face. I had my reasons for pardoning him, but seeing his face, and knowing that his men would share the same – that was enough of a reason for me. Hornwood was escorted out by Mormont, and upon exiting, Redbeard turned towards me, grabbing the furs of my cloak.

"Are you touched in the head, boy? Pardoning a traitor?"

I grabbed the Redbeard's arm, "Touch me again, and you'll wish you hadn't." I glared into his emerald green eyes, his scarred face and strong jaw. I felt the rage boil inside me, like I hadn't felt since I was a scrapping child. The man was larger than me, older than me, and a far greater fighter. But I was his Lord. I'd ridden into battle, and I was foremost Markas Stark, son of Bennard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

Redbeard Cedric let out another throaty growl and walked back to his seat, sitting down and clasping his axe so hard his knuckles turned white.

"That was unwise, My Lord." Cerwyn muttered.

"Listen to Ichabod, boy." Redbeard growled once more.

"The Boltons rule in terror." I explained. "That is their power. The reason why Hornwood couldn't turn against them was fear for his daughter. They will follow me because I will be the Lord they want to serve."

"You should've cut off his head and be done with it." Redbeard muttered, drinking his tankard of ale.

"I offered him bread and salt. He was protected by guestright. Maybe honour does not mean as much to you as it does to me, Redbeard." Redbeard Cedric's face grew scarlet as he stood up to face me again, his fist clenching around the hilt of his axe as he grew closer towards me. I gripped the hilt of my own sword as I stepped towards him. "Go on." I nodded. "And I will hang you for an Oathbreaker."

Redbeard scoffed. "Lord of Winterfell." He chuckled as he went to leave the tent. "Fucking Starks…"

I remained tense until he had fully left the tent, turning back to the table and resting my hands upon it. Cerwyn remained sitting at the table, looking at the book beside him. "The Redbeard doesn't appreciate my choices."

"He's not the only one, My Lord." Cerwyn replied, eyes glancing up from his book. I sat down opposite him, pouring myself a tankard of ale.

"Tell me then. What would you have me do?"

"I would have you be smarter than your father." Cerwyn closed his book. "He disregarded advice at every turn, and fathered a bastard with the Bolton girl. He even refused to acknowledge her as the mother, even until his dying day."

"And that's bad?"

"I suppose he so often blushed when talking about the bastard."

"This isn't about my brother, Lord Cerwyn." I shook my head. It seemed all the Northern Lords were unable to talk about my father without mentioning my brother. "Hornwood is a prisoner, and will be pardoned after we execute Alvar and Raff Bolton."

"So you're still of the mind to execute them."

"Don't mistake me, Lord Cerwyn, they are oathbreakers. I intend to hang them as such."

"Steel your resolve, My Lord." Cerwyn leant across the table. "If you continue to show mercy to traitors, you will find yourself with a rapidly diminishing army. Redbeard Cedric is just the loudest voice in a crowd of disgruntled Northerners."

"My Lord Father told me why the Northerners won't follow a Southnor. The cold winds rise and our blood runs hot. It's only when we're fighting an enemy that we stop fighting each other. The Redbeard will do his duty to my family, and once the war is won, he will know who led us to victory." I stood up as Lord Mormont entered the tent once more. "I know my strategy is longer, but it's surer of victory." I turned towards Mormont. "What news?"

"Lord Markas, the Hornwoods have opened the gates and laid down their arms."

I nodded, "I want you to send a raven to all the Bolton bannermen. Flint, Umber, Karstark - I want you to tell them that Lord Hornwood has sworn fealty to House Stark. Tell them that when Winter comes, their blades won't save them, not matter how sharp. Tell them to strike their banners, bend the knee and I will spare them. If they persist on their present course, I will sow the fields with Northern blood."

 **A fairly snappy chapter, but we've got some of that damn dandy character development of Markas. Seriously, I only just realized how much he's grown since the first chapter he appeared in…**

 **Anyhoo, next up we're at the Dreadfort with the Boltons… I don't think it's going to be that sick and twisted, though you guys loved all that sadistic content, so there will be a few chapters that go dark. Like, darker then you saw in** _ **aCoB.**_

 **Leave a Review – feel free to send in a character. I'm not accepting anymore Starks, Targaryens or Boltons. Also, tell me which characters you want to see interact. The next chapter is called** _ **The Lady of the Dreadfort**_ **. Feel free to theorise who or what it will revolve around.**

 **R.**


	3. The Lady of the Dreadfort

**Theadosia Bolton – The Dreadfort, The North**

Raff was a truly intriguing creature. While father threw the cup of wine against the wall and cursed at all the Gods above, Raff just sat there drinking his ale and tearing at the skin of the chicken. I sat on the other side of the table, sipping my wine as I watched father bellow and profess his fury in all manners of profanity. Father turned to face Raff.

"You do not seem to understand the gravity of the situation." Father hissed into Raff's ear.

"I understand it perfectly." Raff chewed the chicken. "The Stark boy has taken Hornwood."

"And White Harbour!" Father pulled the plate away from Raff. "In a single fortnight he's lessened our numbers and bolstered his own." Father straightened up. "We've lost the support of the Manderlys and the Hornwoods. If we cannot protect our bannermen, they will not follow us!"

"The fucking Manderlys?" Raff laughed. "They wouldn't have been much help. Nor the Hornwoods-"

"Fifteen hundred men would have helped whether they were wildlings or Dothraki!"

Raff rolled his eyes and leant back into his chair. "Fine. I'll ride out and kill them all then. Happy?"

"Far from it; Brute strength will not win the war. It seems I left you with the Greyjoys for far too long…" Father shook his head with a groan.

"Why not have the Greyjoys raid the Stony Shore?" Raff asked, swallowing his ale and wiping his mouth. "They attack from the East, we attack from the West-"

"I declared that we could win this war without help of the others!" Father bawled at him. "Markas Stark is winning this war without the help of Southnors, and you'd have me beg them for aid on my hands and knees?" Father took the cup from Raff and placed it back down onto the table. "It is one thing to win the North, but another thing entirely to keep it!"

A vast silence hung in the air, as father turned away to face the crackling fireplace, and Raff pulled the plate back to pick at and continued to drink his ale. My own wine was thick and sweet. Not as salty as blood, and infinitely less intoxicating. I looked at the red cup, imagining it was blood that seeping down my throat, past my bust, and into my stomach, where the remains of the burnt, crackled chicken began to slowly break down inside of me. The mixing of fire and blood.

Now there's a thought.

"Perhaps we could ask the Targaryens for support?" I mused aloud. Father and Raff faced me. Father's face was full of confusion, while Raff's bore a dark smirk.

"Not like you, Thea." Raff snickered.

"What's not like me?"

"Being such a fucking empty-headed woman."

"Coming from a dullard like yourself?" Father snapped at Raff. He turned towards me and relaxed his features, his voice turning more gentle. "I just said that I cannot allow Southnors to march into our kingdom and fight our wars for us. Thea, the standing of our House is determined by how others see us…"

"I know, father, but I'm not talking about them fighting our wars. I'm talking about their support after the war." Father paused, and then nodded for me to continue. "If we are to hold the North after the war, we'll need the crown to proclaim us as Wardens of the North."

I was cut off by Raff's snorting. "First we have to win the war."

"Send me to King's Landing on your behalf father. I'm not the Lady of the Dreadfort, I'm not the commander of your armies like Raff. Let me help you with this war."

Father thumbed his chin, clenching and releasing his jaw as he always did in thought. It was strange, knowing which muscles were moving and which tendons were strained. His eyes moving back and forth… if I popped them out and fried them, would the iris leak out like the yolk of an egg?

"You'll leave in one hour. Take whatever you need," Father turned to Raff, "and you'll see to it that she has however many men she needs."

"You can't be serious!" Raff exclaimed incredulously.

"And what great plans sit inside your head?" Father advanced on Raff, "You act like a mad dog: eager to rip apart our enemies. You're the finest warrior in the North, but you are first and foremost a Lord: the heir to House Bolton. Learn to hold your own leash or find Thea Lady of the Dreadfort."

Raff stopped chewing, his grip on his cup loosening. Father walked around to me, giving me a gentle kiss on the cheek and running a thumb along my cheek for a moment. "Tell Alara about the Starks taking Hornwood and," Father raised my chin to face him directly, "be gentle."

I imagined her weeping. Perhaps I could tell her that the Starks feasted on the flesh of her father. Or that he was taken like a woman. Her keep was burnt to the ground and the men would take turns with her before handing her to the dogs. "Of course father."

Father pointed to Raff as he exited, "Tomorrow morning, we discuss the troop movements!"

Raff sat there, eyes laid heavily on me as he chewed the remains of the chicken. "Fucking dullard…" Raff growled to himself as he stood up and walked to the table holding a flagon of ale.

"He has a point, you know." I traced my finger around the cold metal rim of the cup.

"You only say that because he favours you." Raff mumbled sullenly as he poured the ale into his cup.

"He favours me because I'm not an idiot…" I stated before Raff cut me off.

"Oh, he favours you because you look like her!" Raff rolled his eyes, carrying the cup and the flagon back to the table. "Our blessed saint of an aunt."

Aunt Maryana. There's a name that was only whispered in the halls of the Dreadfort. Since her death at Winterfell, all had been terrified to utter her name around father. And with good reason – he possessed the Bolton fury. It was cold and unyielding.

"How would you know?" I leant back, watching Raff gulp the ale in silent rage. "Father's never talked to us about her."

"Melissa Manderly remarked it once," Raff drowsily rubbed his eye, "a spitting likeness of Northern beauty." He said in a falsetto with a laugh. "Gods forbid you have the sense not to carry a bastard in your belly…"

And there was the thing that stumped me. Maryana must have concealed her entire pregnancy. Father knew nothing about it until a month after she had left the Dreadfort, when she arrived at Winterfell with Ben Stark, holding the bastard babe. Was it some concoction or blood magic perhaps? There were definite secrets the woman had, and I yearned to learn them. The trickery and subterfuge required for a woman to hide a babe is an asset I desired. Not that I particularly cared to have a babe. No… deception was simply the way to win any and all wars.

"Do you know if he looked like her?"

"Who? Father?"

"No, Finn Snow."

Raff let out a laugh. "Finn fucking Snow… now that's a name I've not heard for a while."

"You've not talked about the bastard that started this war?"

"His father started the war. As did ours. The bastard had little to do with it." Raff drank from his tankard of ale once again. "Still, no. From what I heard our saintly aunt left little of herself in the brat."

"Why was he sent away?" I pondered aloud. "Bennard Stark started a war over him…"

"Oh, who gives a damn over a dead man's decision?" Raff rolled his eyes. "The man spent a year in the South fighting during the Ironborn raids. He took a Northern army and travelled south to help the Royal army. He betrayed the North then and there, and lost the right to remain the Warden."

"Is that why no-one wants Southnors to help, do you think? Because that's what lost him the respect of his people?"

"Who fucking cares, Thea?" Raff laughed. "Dead men don't matter. So," he raised his tankard of ale, "give my regards to the royal bastard."

 **Alara Hornwood – The Dreadfort, The North**

I patiently waited outside Lord Alvar's chamber, hands clasped behind the small of my back. I'd tried to maintain my frizzy golden hair, to no avail. I felt unnatural, having it tied up like Thea did. Just being remotely similar to her made me very aware of the pit in my stomach.

It was Katya Whitehill that had told me about Hornwood being taken. Her own House had received a raven from Lord Mormont, informing them of my father bending the knee to Markas Stark.

On one hand, I was happy. The Starks may have been serious, and though Bennard may have acted very… well, not like a Lord, they were not infamous for flaying living people or mutilating little girls. The only thing I had been scared of was what the Starks would do to me if they took the Dreadfort, but seeing them spare my mother's family in White Harbour and my father in Hornwood, I dared to have hope. Maybe I could leave the Dreadfort? Perhaps go back to Hornwood – back home.

The door opened and I was ushered in by on of the Bolton guards. I saw Lord Alvar there, breathing heavily with his face set into his hands.

"My Lord?"

Alvar looked up at me and rose to his feet, "Lady Hornwood."

I curtsied in response, "Forgive me, My Lord, I heard about my family's betrayal." I kept my eyes on the floor. "Forgive my father, I do not know his mind in this matter."

"Peace, Alara," Alvar held up his hands, "I don't intend to punish you for your father's actions."

"You do not?"

"He has made his choice. He's done so for the safety of his family and his House, but you understand that he has broken faith to me and mine own."

"Yes, My Lord." I bowed my head. Alvar was… nothing like I expected him to be. I'd rarely spoken to him much alone, but I always felt his one good pale eye fix on me with intrigue, the corner of his lip pulling up slightly into half a smile. His eye was a light, pale grey – as pale as my own. He placed a hand over my head, flattening down my hair, his pale wrists cold against my check.

"You have her hair."

"Whose, My Lord?"

"Melissa's." He stated, letting a finger get tangled in the ringlets.

"My aunt Melissa, My Lord?"

"Yes… I was fond of her. " He let his eye linger on the hair for a moment before turning away, "It saddened me greatly to hear of her passing."

"Thank you, My Lord."

Alvar walked to his bed, and began to unfasten his burgundy woollen tunic. "You'll find no punishment because you've committed no crimes." He turned back to me with a smile. "Now, your Lady is journeying to King's Landing. I want you to go with her. Keep an eye on her for me."

"Of course, My Lord." I bowed my head and curtsied again before leaving his chamber.

 **Ooh, pieces are moving… is anyone excited for Aeron and Thea meeting? Let me know in your reviews! The next chapter is one that we've been awaiting for quite a while now…**

 **I loved reading your predictions, because only one person thought it could revolve around someone other than Ilyana Bolton… the name is misleading, but hopefully you can see why I named it that.**

 **So, until I receive this one character I need, this is the last chapter. I may write another one, but really, I can't continue the story until I get this major character…**

 **So, let me know what you thought!**


	4. The Wolf's Bastard

**So, guys, this is the first chapter based in Essos. Kind of a long chapter, but I'm introducing a load of new characters so… enjoy!**

 **Also, I only got two reviews for Chapter 3, so if you haven't read it yet, please go and give it a read first – there's a reason why these chapters are in order.**

 **Finn Snow –** _ **The Banshee**_ **,** __ **Braavos, Essos**

 _Evie,_

 _I know you wanted to write to me, and_

I couldn't think of what else to write. Every time I put a quill to parchment, the words just escaped me. I guess I had little to say. What do you even begin to say after four years? Lady Stark was probably much happier with me gone. Little Evie and Tylan could barely remember me… Markas was enough of a milksop to believe his mother when she undoubtedly told him it was best that I left. And father? Well, he was the one that sent me away.

"Good to be home, yes?"

I looked up to see Mikko walk up from beneath the decks of _the_ _Banshee_ , a mercantile cog carrying spices and rum, carrying my sword belt in one hand. He was an incredibly muscular, tall man. Dark eyes and darker skin with a thick, unkept beard. He stood out in a crowd – especially in Braavos. After all, there weren't many Dothraki this side of Essos.

"Aye." I nodded, taking my belt from him and fastening it around my other belt, which held my favourite dagger; a double-edged blade of castle-forged steel, with an ironwood handle. The pommel was carved into a wolf's head. The craftsmanship of the Forresters back in the North was unparalleled. Far better than anything I would find in Essos. I turned to face the city of Braavos as the ship drew closer, making out the labyrinth of canals that ran through the city, the bright colours of Bravos and Courtesans. Traders bustling through the streets, pausing every so often to listen to the Red Priests or watch the purple-hulled cogs roll into dock. Though I'd eaten, slept, drank and fucked for two years in Braavos, I still felt like I was seeing it for the first time. "Home." I nodded.

"Good weight?" Mikko gestured to the arakh that sat on my second belt. I unsheathed it, holding my arm out straight. The blade was a damned sight bigger than I was used to, though it was lighter than a greatsword back home. I twirled it around and nodded.

"It'll do." I sheathed the blade, and looked back out across the sea. We'd passed through the legs of the Titan of Braavos, who had let out a bellowing horn to announce our arrival. I could see the Arsenal, a fortress sat upon a knobble of rock, armed with trebuchets and scorchfires and a fleet of warship galleys. It was damned near impossible to escape Braavos if they wanted you dead. I'd often tried to imagine how I would do it – under cover of night, sneak into a rowboat? Too slow. Commandeer several warships? They'd sink them all without batting an eye. It was one problem I'd never quite learned how to solve.

"You write letter?" Mikko looked down, trying to make sense of the words. He'd been speaking the common tongue for a few years now, though it was still somewhat broken for him. Though, he was better at speaking it than I was at Dothraki. It was only until recently that he insisted on speaking the common tongue, as he wanted to improve it. Otherwise, I was happy speaking Valyrian.

"Aye, to my sister back home. I mean, in Winterfell." I looked back at the words, trying to imagine what I would say. How I felt. Gods, I didn't even know how I felt, much less about how I would word it. "I haven't heard from them since I left." I refused to let my mind wander back to those days back in Westeros. I scrumpled up the parchment into a ball and threw it over my shoulder. "I reckon they're past caring anyway."

I stood up, taking a bottle of spiced rum out of the crate and uncorking it with my teeth. I spat the cork out and took a swig from the bottle. You wouldn't find this anywhere in Westeros. No, spiced rum was a commodity I had only become more fond of during my exile in Essos. I handed it to Mikko.

"Onwards then." He joined me in drinking from it. The Captain wouldn't mind – after all, we'd saved his hide from the Summer Isle pirates on our voyage from Yunkai.

The ship docked in the Purple Harbour, and we accepted a purse from the Captain before disembarking on our journey. We began to walk through the throngs of spice merchants and city watch. To my left, I could see the Sealord's Palace. Large gilded towers and a clockface that looked out amongst all of us. I still remembered the year I'd served in there… Gods, I was a fool. What a pittance I made there…

We made our way past the Iron Bank; a large stone fortress with heavy iron doors behind steel-clad men. I took note of each of them, remembering every detail I could. Further South, there was the Moon Pool, which was filled with goldsmiths and craftsmen. At night, however, I remembered how the population changed into the pugnacious Bravos that swaggered along, spitting and glaring at each other. Placing a finger upon the hilt of your own blade was enough for them to be challenged in a duel. They didn't care for who you were and what you cared for. They just wanted to show off how good they were.

I hadn't met one that was better than me.

I led Mikka to the Long Canal, past the minstrels that played their lutes and sang their songs, the dancing girls and barges of Courtesans.

"Is Braavos always like this?" Mikka asked me. I turned around to see a small boy, wrapped in rags, reaching for Mikka's purse. I grabbed his wrist and hissed at him.

"Get to fuck, sneaksby." I snarled, letting him scurry off into the crowds.

"The boy just wanted to eat."

"They boy eats just fine." I replied, making sure the child wouldn't return. I turned back to Mikka "It's the Uncloaking of Uthero."

"Of what?"

"Braavos was founded by slaves." I explained to Mikka as we climbed into flat-bottomed rowboat, muttering a few directions in Valyrian to the boatsman. "Generations after the slaves were freed, Uthero paid off the slavers."

"Why?" Mikka asked. "Who was this Uthero?" I simply shrugged in response. "Well, was he the leader of these people? Or some sort of God-"

"Mikka, we're currently inside the Bastard Daughter of Valyria, and you're more interested in her father." I lounged back into the boat, taking his wineskin and drinking a measure of it. I wasn't much for wine, but it'd do.

"You know this man well, then?"

"Belos?" I nodded. "Aye, we met some years ago. When I first came here. I served under him for the Sealord of Braavos."

"So, why did you leave?"

"The competition turned stale. As did the pittance I were paid…" I stood up as we neared the Drowned Town, "serving under a miser like the Sealord is no way to find a fortune. The Second Sons offered new challenges."

"And women?" Mikka smirked at me. I couldn't help but chuckle as I climbed out of the boat.

"And riches."

A small, rickety pier had been constructed alongside the head of a large domed tower. Inside that tower, there would be a grand hall. Filled with crumbling mosaics and all manners of cutthroats and cutpurses.

Walking inside, we took a left, through a small passageway and up the cracked marble staircase which led to a balcony. The balcony was filled with rough tables and rougher patrons, all drinking spiced rum and wine mixed with all sorts of tonics. If you were looking for a killer or a thief, this was the place you'd find one.

But I was looking for both.

By the edge of the balcony, sat at a table, was a familiar sight. Belos was an older man now, late into his sixth decade, with dark chestnut curls and a greying beard. He still dressed like a true bravo, with his aqua shirt and wooden brown jerkin. The only thing that separated him from the others at the table was his dark hood that was sewn into the inside of his jerkin. Belos rested a hand on the silver-hilted rapier with a ruby set inside the pommel like a dragon's eye. The hilt was protected by a silver basket which snaked around the hilt like vines, intertwining at the hilt.

Opposite Belos, was Hilario Baharis. He was a handful of years my senior, with a lithe figure – a boon when it came to the water dance. Though he looked as though he was still a boy, with a rounded face and soft features. Hilario was wiping down his rapier, a skinny blade with a hilt that wrapped around the hilt. I grinned to myself as he began to twirl a finger into his short brown hair – still a peacock. He wore an olive-green shirt under a darker, forest-green gambeson, which brought out the emerald in his eyes.

It was the third figure, however, that was not familiar. She was a child, yet to reach womanhood, with platinum hair and brilliant speckled violet eyes. I narrowed my eyes at her – a Targaryen, perhaps? Or some other Valyrian house? She dressed more like Hilario and Belos, with a silk pink shirt under a soft violet doublet, which she had left unfastened. As we neared, I caught sight of her blade – a small rapier with a sapphire set inside the pommel.

"Morning, lads," I called to them, looking at the girl, "lady." I greeted her with a short nod. She gave me a polite smile, and looked to Belos, who let out a deep laugh and stood up.

"By the Gods… Finn Snow! I thought I'd heard some Lyseni slaver poked you full of holes."

I patted my jerkin and shrugged, "Not yet, it seems."

Belos laughed and grabbed my forearm, and then wrapped an arm around my shoulder. "Hilario! Get the man a drink!" Hilario stood up and walked over to the stockpiled barrels to produce a tall sapphire bottle of spiced rum. Belos only then noticed Mikka lurking behind me. He took a step backwards, his hand falling next to the hilt of his rapier. "Who's this then?"

"Belos, this is Mikka, son of Dhina. Mikka," I turned to my companion, "this sullen old crock is formerly," I cleared my throat and dropped into my Braavosi accent, "the First Sword of the Sealord of Braavos. Belos Vollys, Bravo of Braavos." I plunged into a deep bow, watching Hilario laugh in the background. Belos, however, kept his eyes on Mikka.

"Good morrow." Mikka held out a hand, which Belos just watched intently. His eyes fell on Mikka's arakh.

"You let him carry a blade, do you?" Belos asked me.

"Peace, Belos," I whispered, "Mikka's saved my life more times than I care to count."

Belos grumbled and turned back to the table, leading me towards the small girl that sat there. "Taenara," he rested a hand on her shoulder, "this malapert you see is Finn Snow. The infamous Bastard of Winterfell."

"Bastard?" Taenara furrowed her brow in confusion as Hilario handed me the bottle of rum.

I'd learn to live with this constant comment. Ever since I was a child, I'd found my own ways to cope with it. I raised the bottle to Taenara and took a sip before I turned back to Belos. "You're recruiting fairly young, ey?"

"She's promising," Belos informed me, "and she heeds instruction." Belos looked to Taenara. "Four years ago, I found this boy stepping off a ship at the Purple Harbour. The boy seemed intent on fighting every Bravo he could find."

"And I won." I sat down at the table.

"Barely." Belos shook his head, "But there was potential there. I took him under my wing, and several long, _long_ , months later, he was under my command, protecting the Sealord of Braavos." Belos flickered his eyes to watch Mikka as he moved to sit down next to me. Taenara moved further away from him, and closer to Belos.

"And it was the safest he'd ever been." I grinned.

"Last I heard, Snow," Hilario placed a foot on the table, "you'd joined up with the Second Sons outside Yunkai."

"Hilario." I nodded my greeting. I began to notice something new – the beard that covered his jaw. It certainly lended him a few years he deeply needed. "What is this thing you've cultivated on your chin?" I leant forwards, trying to pick at it, only to have Hilario bat away my hand. "It's true, I served with them for a time. But Mikka and I," I clapped a hand on Mikka's shoulder, "we decided to find our fortune elsewhere."

"Didn't the Second Sons slaughter the Dothraki?" Belos asked Mikka, his fingertips grazing the pommel of his rapier. I saw Mikka look away before responding.

"I am no Dothraki."

A weighty silence stood in the air. I knew little of Mikka's past, as he was so reluctant to speak of it. But there were hints. He was a damned good fishermen. During our voyage through Valyria, he'd kept us alive with a line and a crudely-bent hook. And Mikka didn't dress like a Dothraki Screamer, with his hair cropped short and leathers above the belt.

"It's a bit of a touchy subject." I explained to Belos.

"Westerosi." I heard a voice from behind me, and couldn't help but smile. The musical chime that drifted through the air. I turned around to face her; she wore a veil over her face, under her dark russet curls, but I knew what hid behind it. Her olive skin. Her Almond-shaped violet eyes. Her bright red, thick and soft lips, like petals kissed together. Around her neck, she wore a scarlet jewel, like I'd seen on many of the Red Priests and Priestesses. Under this necklace was another, with silver charms of crescent and full moons, hanging from the chain like raindrops from a web.

"Braavosi." I grinned at Helesa, bowing my head slightly. She walked closer to us, hips swaying with the motion of waves, her purple satin dress revealing her curved hips and lithe frame. The Daughter of Dusk, the most beautiful, elegant, graceful, star-dropped courtesan in all of Braavos. "I hope your blade is sharper than your wit." I could make out a smile from behind her veil.

"Forgive me, it seems I'm absent gifts."

"You've probably gifted it to another woman… or anyone, for that matter, as long as they have a flagon of wine."

I scoffed, "I don't drink wine." She raised an eyebrow. "And, there's only one woman for me." I hastily replied. I reached up to remove her veil, but she simply gave me a small shove, and glided around the table to pour herself a glass of rum.

"If you're looking to line your pockets with the Sealord's coins, I'm afraid I've resigned." Belos informed me.

"I've a mind for something else entirely, Belos."

"And I'm entirely sure I wish you luck."

"Oh, forgive me," I transitioned into my Braavosi accent again, "I believed myself to be in the company of cutpurses and courtesans." I laughed, losing the accent as Belos rolled his eyes, and Hilario chuckled. "It seems I'll need to find some new villains and scoundrels to consort with."

"Cutpurses?" Mikka growled, standing up with a hand on the hilt of his arakh. It had slipped my mind. I turned back to him.

"Pickpockets. That's all."

"Thieves?"

I thought for a moment, "It's a different type of thievery." Mikka shook his head and began to walk away. "Fuck…" I sighed, walking after him and holding him in place.

"The Screamer has a problem with thieves?" Belos asked pointedly. I turned back to Belos.

"It's fine, I'm handling it."

"Then handle it, Finn Snow."

I turned back to Mikka, "We came all this way. Just trust me, okay?" I held out my hand. Mikka fixed his eyes on Belos before he looked back to me and grabbed my forearm with a nod. We walked back to the table and sat down.

"Regale us with a tale, Finn Snow." Belos implored me. "Where have you been? I haven't seen you for two years."

"Aye, we got held up in Yunkai recently," I grinned at Mikka, "the townsfolk were so taken with my swordplay, they wanted me to stay and show them all some more."

"Show them in the pits." Mikka stated.

"A small matter." I waved a casual hand.

"In the fighting pits, you mean?" Taenara asked me, violet eyes full of wonder and excitement. I nodded, taking a swig from the bottle.

"Aye." I unsheathed my arakh, handing it to her so she could feel the weight "A match of ten men – four of which wetted my blade. A Dothraki Screamer, a man trained as an Unsullied, a fearsome beast that was half-man, half-giant!" Taenara smiled with glee as I told her tale. "I received a champion's purse for the match-"

"Alright, Snow, I don't need you filling her head with this nonsense."

"It's no nonsense!" Taenara protested. Belos, Hilario and I laughed at this. I suppose we had both been that excited child at some point before, when Belos had taken us in. I took the arakh back from her, sheathing it on my belt.

"I've a present for you Belos."

"A present?" Belos curled his lip. I reached into my shirt and produced the key I had on a rope. It was small, seemingly simple and solid iron. I slid it across the Belos, who raised it to his eye, examining it with confusion.

"A key?" Belos frowned. "You've given me some rum key?"

"Not any poxy key, Vollys," it was hard to keep my voice down when I was this excited, "that's taken from around the neck of a keyholder! A keyholder of damned Iron Bank!"

"A keyholder?" Hilario took the key from Belos, examining it with shock and eagerness. "You've a talent for this line of work, Snow."

"It ain't work if you love it." I smirked.

"What about the keyholder?" Belos asked me, no smile on his face. I paused before swallowing the rum.

"He won't be needing it no more." I felt Mikka shift uncomfortably next to me. Killing never sat comfortably with him. A rare sight in a sellsword, I know.

"So, why have you brought this key?" Helesa plucked it from Hilario's hands, twirling it between her fingers.

I licked my lips, knowing they'd interrupt me as soon as I started explaining. "Look, the doors to the Iron Bank are impenetrable, but if we focus on deception rather than assaulting-"

"Not this drivel again, Snow…" Belos rolled his eyes as Hilario groaned.

"We'd earn a thousand times more what we'd earn in a year from skinflint like the Sealord. Or even the Golden Company, for that matter."

"It's ambitious." Helesa laughed. "You never fail to intrigue me, Snow."

"What's with this blade, Snow?" Hilario nodded at my arakh. "Your Dothraki Screamer give you that?" He looked at Mikka.

"Just a man in the pits who thought he'd talk shite to my face."

"And?"

"He ain't talking shite no more." I saw Mikka shift uncomfortably once again.

"Big swords don't make big men." Hilario leant back into his chair. "If you can't make do with a fine little blade like this," he wrapped a hand around the hilt of his rapier, "you'd be better off not carrying one at all."

I hadn't realized how much I'd missed Hilario's competitiveness. "You sound a tad bitter, Hilario." I lounged back in my own chair. "Have the women complained about size a lot to you? Are you scared they'll prefer mine?"

Hilario opened his mouth to respond, only to be cut off by Belos. "You young men…" Belos chuckled, "the greatest victories are the ones where you don't even have to draw your sword. Come, share a drink!" We all raised our glasses and bottles, "Raise a glass to freedom! Far from the reach and hold of Kings. To cutthroats, courtesans and other deadly bastards!" We knocked our drinks into each other before drinking a good measure. Taenara was the only one who did not drink. I felt the spices char my throat, and though Belos drank it often, it was Helesa that finished her drink first with ease.

"This establishment has seen better days…" Helesa murmured aloud.

"Then let us take a look inside the Iron Vaults!"

There was a communal groan from everyone at the table.

"Oh, slip out of your reverie, boy," Belos rolled his eyes and looked to Taenara, "he's been peddling this twaddle for years now: It's reckless, Snow!"

"No, it's courageous. There's a difference – no-one's ever thought to rob the Iron Bank before. No-one's even tried…"

"I wonder why." Hilario muttered.

"…So how can you say it can't be done? Thousands of fortunes lay behind those doors!"

"It's no fortune if you can't spend it." Hilario reasoned. "How would one even begin to carry all that wealth?"

"We wouldn't need to!" I near-exclaimed. I grabbed the key back from Helesa, "The man that this key belonged to, he said that there's a shipment coming into Braavos. This shipment includes a jewel that is beyond valuable – the size of a newborn babe!"

The table fell silent as everyone looked at each other. It was Belos who spoke first, and in that moment, I knew they were hooked. "Let's say we were willing. How would you do it?"

"I've got a plan."

"Not another one of your plans…" Helesa snickered.

"Just listen to me. Criticise me if you must, call me mad, but do so after I've finished talking."

Belos sighed and leaned forwards. "I knew you'd be the death of me, Finn Snow. Go on then, tell me this damned plan of yours."

 **I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! It was pretty long… Anyway, please leave a review – it's been a long-awaited chapter.**

 **The next chapter is called** _ **The Lady of Dragonstone**_


	5. The Lady of Dragonstone

**Hey guys! Here's the latest chapter – The Lady of Dragonstone. I've been waiting a while to introduce these characters, and you can see that they're going to be more prominent from now on.**

 **Viserys Targaryen – Dragonstone, The Crownlands**

The first thing I heard was the screech of Moonfyre outside. The wind howled across the sea, beating against the stone. The distant crash of waves against the shore… it was a familiar sound I hadn't heard for years.

My eyes opened, and I gazed upon my chamber; it had been carved out of a mountain, and to my right, the shutters of the window opened, revealing the horizon, with Moonfyre soaring in the sky, next to her twin, Sunfyre.

I let out a splutter, and the figure at the window turned towards me. It took me a moment, but I recognized her pointed features like mother, with her pale gold hair plaited and braided around the crown of her head. She was wrapped in a long scarlet dress, cut low against her alabaster skin.

"Visenya." I smiled. She dashed around to the side of my bed and hugged me. I felt a twinge, realizing how much my body ached. I looked down to see my wounds had been bound. My shoulder, my stomach and my leg sat with cream-coloured wrappings, stained with blood. I let out a gasp and Visenya moved away.

"I'm sorry…" She clasped her hands tightly. I grabbed her wrist and pulled her back to me for a hug. She was gentle, her arms gently resting against me, but I didn't care about the pain. It was good – it meant I was still alive.

"Draegor." I let out a choke.

"I know." Visenya sat down on my bed. "Aeron has crowned himself King."

"That damned bastard…" I growled. "We'll take it back, Visenya."

"With what army, Viserys?" Visenya stood up, looking out of the window. "We only have two dragons."

"House Valeryon of Driftmark will support us," I stated, "Celtigar of Claw Isle…"

"Two houses." Visenya crossed her arms. "Two houses against the royal army. Not to mention the Tyrell forces…"

I pushed myself up in bed with a grunt. "Okay, so we send ravens to all the Great Houses of Westeros. Stark, Lannister, Tully, Arryn… We call them to march on King's Landing."

"The Starks are embroiled in their own war. Aeron's mother is from the Vale, the Arryns won't be much help. And Aeron has Lyra Lannister in King's Landing-"

"Okay, so we help the Starks win their war. Or- or we tell Lucian Lannister we'll rescue his daughter-"

"Viserys," Visenya held my hand, "we're the last two that are left."

"What about Laena-"

"She's my sister, and I love her, but she's a coward. You know she is. She'll bend the knee or die."

"She's a Targaryen. A true Targaryen."

"Viserys, you're a knight, a soldier. A fine one, certainly, but you need to be smarter than this. You've married Haylise; House Baratheon will stand with us." She smiled. "That's one of the Seven Kingdoms behind us."

She was right. Of course she was. I had my sword, and Visenya had her mind. We were two parts of the same person. I nodded. "It's not a bad start, is it?"

Visenya smiled, realising she'd convinced me. "Not by any measure." She kissed me gently on the forehead and rubbed my cheek. She then turned to face one of the servants and nodded. The servant bowed and left the room. "Your wife has been anxious to see you."

"Haylise is here?"

"You flew here from King's Landing. The moment Moonfyre touched down, you fell to the ground. Haylise helped carry you here."

Haylise entered the room, wrapped in a low-cut, scarlet dress, much like Visenya's. In fact, I was fairly certain that she wore one of Visenya's dresses. It covered more skin than any other dress I'd seen Visenya clad in, and it was a little small for her, but she looked positively radiant in it. The Baratheon black hair spiralled down to her collarbones, and she sprinted towards me, wrapping an arm around my neck.

"Thank the Gods…" Haylise murmured, "You've slept for two weeks!"

"One needs their rest for war." I smiled. "Visenya and I have been conferring."

"Conferring on what?"

"Taking back King's Landing."

"Viserys…" Visenya placed a hand on the stone windowsill, "I'm sure there's plenty of time later for that."

"No, we need to deal with this now." Haylise turned back to Viserys. "We'll ride Moonfyre and Sunfyre and burn King's Landing to the ground."

"The whole city?" I frowned. "Haylise, we can't destroy an entire city."

"It would be a sure way to kill Aeron." Visenya reasoned. "He killed our brother. He took the throne- the throne which is yours by right."

"Aeron has Daenys, Broxagon and Helyax. Three dragons – two of which are the largest."

"Broxagon only listened to Draegor." Visenya said. "And Helyax is Laena's mount. He won't listen to anyone else."

"But who does Laena listen to?"

A knock sounded at the door, and Maester Kyran entered with a bow. "Your Grace," he bowed his head to Visenya, Haylise and myself, "a raven has arrived. From King's Landing."

Haylise lunged forwards, snatching it from Kyran and reading it with eager eyes. She gulped as she set down the ravenscroll with a shaking hand.

"Haylise? What is it?" I asked, turning to Visenya, who moved around to take the scroll from her, reading it.

Visenya turned to Haylise, "I'm so sorry, sister…" she said quietly, "You have my condolences." Visenya handed me the ravenscroll.

 _To my traitorous brother and his whore sister,_

 _You are to yield Dragonstone to the Crown._ _The Iron Throne is mine. Your very sister stands against you. Bend the knee, or I will have your head. I have three dragons._

 _The Lannisters stand beside me. The Tyrells stand beside me. I will raze your home to the ground._

 _My Kingsguard knights will take turns with you, my whore sister. Just as they did so with your mother last night._

 _I will throw you to my dragons to be devoured, my traitorous brother. Your Lady love, Ashriel, is eager to see you. I think she misses you, traitor. Tell your wife her father pleaded for mercy and renounced her as a daughter before Ser Mikal slit his throat._

 _Yield Dragonstone, or suffer the consequences._

 _Aeron Targaryen, First of his Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, King of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Realm_.

 **Ryleigh Baratheon – Storm's End, The Stormlands**

"My Lord?" I looked up from my cup of water, picking at the toasted apple slices in front of me. Father had died. Maester Ayric was a short man, with balding grey hair. He shuffled around the table, shoulders hunched, with dulled brown eyes. The only sound was his boots scuffling against the stone slabs and the chains around his neck clinking together over his brown robes.

"Sorry, Maester Ayric." I cleared my throat.

"That's quite alright, My Lord," Maester Ayric placed a hand on my shoulder, "it is only natural to be in shock. He was a great man, your father."

People always seemed to talk about how great father was. He'd been Hand of the King since before I was born, and I'd rarely known the man. My older brother, Baldinar, was in King's Landing too. The ravenscroll said nothing of his death. I read the letter again, reading each word intently.

"Do I have to go?"

Maester Ayric sat down beside me, "You do not have to do anything you do not wish to. Baldinar has sworn the oath of the Kingsguard, and so you are now Lord of the Stormlands."

I nodded, trying to keep my mind focused. It was times like these that I longed to run outside and play Come in My Castle with Edric, the Kennelmaster's son. But, I was Lord now. Maester Ayric was fond of reminding me I had no time to play anymore.

"But, it may be wise to do so." Maester Ayric cautioned. "Aeron is King of the Seven Kingdoms now. He sits on the Iron Throne. If you ignore his call, you may as well refuse to bend the knee and call him usurper."

"But he is a usurper." I frowned. "Surely everyone knows this?"

"Of course they do," Maester Ayric leant back into the chair with a sigh, "but he is the most powerful man in Westeros now. And people care more about power than they do about honour."

"Did father?"

"Your father was… a great man." Maester Ayric said slowly. "But greatness is not always good. All I know for sure, is that he wanted to be a good father. And as Lord Hand, he was father to the realm."

But wasn't I part of the realm? I shook my head and looked back down at the scroll, biting my lip. Haylise was married to Viserys. I suppose I was bound by honour to support him. But, then there was my impending bride.

"Now, come along, little Lord," Maester Ayric rose to his feet, "I do believe we have a guest to welcome."

My household assembled in the courtyard to greet Evie. I saw the Kennelmaster, Edwin, but there was no Edric. I looked up to Maester Ayric, "Where's Edric?"

"I do believe he's attending to the hounds, My Lord. Shall I order him to attend?"

"No… no, I don't want to order him." I felt my heart sink down into my stomach. I hated it when Edric wasn't here, but I knew why he wasn't. I suppose he felt there was no place for him in my life once Evalyn Stark arrived.

The horses arrived, with tall and gruff Northerners looking around at us. They wore furs and poorly crafted leather armour. My own guard were clad in steel plate armour and chainmail. But I'd heard stories of Stark men. Honourable, weathered… direwolves.

There were only two women there. One was clearly a septa, a crone in grey. The other one must have been Evalyn Stark. She wore a dark blue dress under a heavy brown cloak, a grey wolf's pelt draped over her shoulders. She dismounted her horse, and walked behind the guard. Maester Ayric stepped forwards.

"Welcome to Storm's End, Ser…?"

"No 'Ser' for me, m'lord," the man spoke, "I ain't some perfumed knight."

Maester Ayric chuckled to himself. "Northerners…" He muttered.

"I am Renn Woodfoot, Captain of the Guard in Winterfell."

"May I present Ryleigh Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands."

I felt my cheeks flush as all eyes fell on me. Renn Woodfoot snorted and rubbed his nose before jerking a finger over his shoulder. "This is Evie Stark."

Evalyn, or Evie rather, walked forwards. She was a head shorter than me, and incredibly pale, as if she had never seen the sun before today. Her ashen hair was not typically Stark, and it spiralled and fell above her eyes, which were lighter than I'd expected. She was small and dainty, with her pert nose dusted with freckles that spread across her cheekbones like a constellation of stars. Though her eyes were round and soft, her chin was sharp, and her face was long… I'd heard the soldiers call the Starks 'horse-faced', but I didn't see the resemblance. She was actually quite pretty.

"Lord Baratheon." She curtsied, speaking with a fragile Northern twang.

"Lady Stark." I bowed. "I trust your journey was pleasant?"

"We encountered no danger, My Lord."

I nodded. "Good. That's good." I felt all the eyes study me as I tried to think of what else to say. An elbow nudged into my back. I looked back to Maester Ayric, who nodded at the Stark men. "Oh!" I looked back to them. "You must be tired after your journey. The hospitality of Storm's End is yours."

"Thank you kindly, m'lord." Renn Woodfoot bowed his head. "We'll stay for a day or two before we set off back to Winterfell. Crack some Bolton skulls, ey lads?" The Stark men chuckled.

"We have arranged a feast to celebrate your arrival, Lady Evalyn." Maester Ayric informed her. "I shall show you to your chambers if you wish to change after your arduous voyage."

"Thank you, Maester."

I'd never witnessed a feast like this. Even at my sister's wedding, the feast was not this rambunctious. The Northerners cheered and shouted and wrestled arms on the table, slamming tankards into each other. My house guard sat on the other side of the hall, rubbing their jaws and looking at each other with confused caution.

Evie sat beside me. She had bathed and changed into dark green dress. It felt… plain. No ornate jewels or finery. Simply a small steel brooch of a direwolf on her chest.

"So…" I tried to search for a conversational topic, "Do you…" I cleared my throat and tried to speak over the shouting Northerners, "do you like the food?"

"Oh," She smiled, dabbing a handkerchief at her mouth and looking up from the venison, "yes, thank you, My Lord."

"Good." I tried to search for another topic, but Evie found one first.

"Did you hunt it yourself?"

"Me? No, I'm… I'm not much of a hunter." I sighed, remembering how father was always shocked by this. "Do you want some wine? We have wine here…" I looked around for the jug.

"No thank you My Lord, father only let me have a cup with dinner."

"Well, voice your mind should it change." I settled into my chair, looking at everyone in the hall. I caught Maester Ayric's face, who nodded towards Evie.

"So," I began to speak once more, "I was sorry to hear about your father."

Evie turned to face me. "You knew him?"

"No… but my father appreciated him travelling South. Apparently he escorted Lady Vysella to Dragonstone during the Ironborn raids."

"Yes… it's a shame my people didn't feel the same." She frowned. That made me sad – she seemed so nice, it was awful that she should feel bad at all.

"Maester Ayric told me that a good father makes a good lord." I informed her. "And Bennard Stark sounded like a good lord." Evie's frown dissipated, and a gradual smile formed.

"He was." She nodded. "Thank you, My Lord."

I waited a moment. "Ryleigh." I think I was starting to find the flow of the conversation. "If I am to be yours, we should be able to talk to each other like friends."

Evie let out a sigh of relief. "I agree, My Lord- Ryleigh, I mean."

"What is Winterfell like?"

"It's colder… and there's not as many storms."

"Of course. Luckily, you arrived on a good day."

"It is a good day, isn't it?" Evie smiled. But, before I could continue the conversation, Evie's hand found itself on top of mine. I looked down the hall, and saw a boy standing there. Lean, a year older than I, and clad in a simple leather doublet, was Edric. He gritted his teeth, his strong jaw widening, and walked to his seat beside his father, Edwin. I quickly moved my hand away from Evie's.

"Forgive me, My Lady." I said stiffly. "I feel quite ill. Please excuse me." I stood up from my chair, bowing from the waist, and walking out of the hall.

And I hoped that Edric would follow me.

 **So, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! I've got a bit of a flu, so I was getting very tired writing this. Anyhow, I'm glad you guys are enjoying this story. Please leave a review, feel free to send in a character and let me know what scenes you want to see, and what character combinations you like. The next chapter is set back in King's Landing, and is titled '** _ **Enemies of the Realm**_ **'.**


	6. Enemies of the Realm

**Hey guys! I'm still somewhat ill, but I've been trying to muster energy for this. It took me a while to write this, but I think it's worth the wait… I hope so, anyway.**

 **Ser Baldinar Baratheon – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

I'd thought many things of Aeron growing up. A bastard. A clever man. A kind man. But it seems I'd never been correct in my assumptions about him. He held a true name, the man had recklessly placed himself on the Iron Throne, and he had murdered anyone that would have stopped him.

Including my father.

I didn't care what people said, my father would never have conspired to poison Rhaegon. My father may not have been a good man. He let the War in the North continue for four years and may have treated Aeron like a false Targaryen. But he was. Aeron the Pretender. In my mind, I had slit his throat, stuck my blade through his throat, and strangled him in his sleep. I imagined his eyes popping out in horror and shock. But, my hand lay gently on my hilt.

I was Ser Baldinar Baratheon of the Kingsguard. By taking the oath, I had forsaken my family for the Knights of the Kingsguard. They were my family. And yet, when Ser Richard Dayne tore off his cloak and brandished his sword, my oaths were crossed. I had to choose between forsaking my vow to the Kingsguard by protecting Ser Richard, or forsake the same vow by killing him. It was a small mercy, I suppose, that it was Ser Mikal who landed the killing blow.

But watching Aeron sit on the throne, the same throne my father had sat on many times as Hand of the King, I knew what I would do. I would not fight for Viserys, or for Aeron. I had vowed to protect Rhaegon, and he was now dead.

Curse the Gods above for using me as a piece in their cruel and twisted game. Damn the vows. I would be the one who killed Aeron Targaryen. I would be the one who killed the king. For my father, and for myself.

Lord Lucian Lannister rose to his feet. He was a tall man, in his fifth decade of life, with his Lannister golden hair slicked backwards, and two twinkling emerald eyes. His nose was a crooked, from a poorly made helm he wore during a tourney for his daughter's nameday. He wore ornate armour, red and gold, and a long red cloak draped around his neck.

The court burst into applause as he finished proclaiming Aeron as the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms. Aeron stood up, holding out his hands to silence the court.

"Rylon Baratheon was a friend to us all. But he was a false friend. He poisoned my father, kept him weak so he could rule. And when my father passed from this world, he conspired with another. He and Viserys Targaryen plotted to murder Draegor and seize the throne for themselves." Everyone broke into awe-filled murmurs. "The false knight Ser Richard Dayne assisted Viserys and Rylon in murdering Draegor. And I have the brave knights of the Kingsguard to thank for my safety!" The court applauded again. I looked at the other knights – Ser Howland was the only one who bore the same expression as me. We were ill. It churned my stomach to be praised as a hero. "Ser Mikal delivered the killing blow. And for his bravery, I pronounce him as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard!"

Ser Mikal stepped forwards and turned about to face Aeron, removing his helm and bowing. He looked gruesome and sickly now. The side of his red hair was shorn, and a deep scar dented into his head, separated his sapphire eye from the emerald.

"I begged Rylon repent for his sins and face trial like an honourable man, regardless of birth. I pleaded with him to confess to his crimes, and I would show mercy, and allow him to take the black, and live out his days with some modicum of honour. Alas, he chose the coward's path, and took his own life."

I felt eyes fall upon me, waiting for an action. Waiting for me to embody my House's words. But I would not show them this. I would hold my rage like hounds on an iron tether. Only when the opportunity presented itself would I seize my moment and let loose the dogs of war.

"I thank Lord Lannister," Aeron continued, "for pledging ten thousand men from the Rock to the Royal Army in this time of turmoil. He has been a true friend to the Realm. Lord Lucian," Aeron sat on the Iron throne once more, "I name you Hand of the King."

Lucian's face twisted into a smug grin as he ascended the steps to stand beside Aeron, taking the silver pin from him. I began to imagine sticking Aeron… I'd have to plan this carefully. I'd do the deed myself, as I couldn't trust anyone with this. Perhaps while he slept?

It was at this point that the doors opened, and the Lannister guards marched in. They moved in formation, a hand on the hilt of their swords as they escorted two girls. Both were in their grease-covered kirdles, with mud smeared across the side of their faces. One girl was small and lithe, with her dark hair knotted and tangled over her ears, which still bled from where the gold had been wrenched out. The other girl's eyes stung red, her platinum hair was frazzled and unkept, caked in grease as she looked up from the ground, revealing the charred skin that covered the side of her face.

"Lady Ashriel. Princess Laena." Aeron nodded his head at them. "You stand accused of treason. The Lady Ashriel assisted the kinslayer, Viserys, escape justice. Princess Laena, did you know anything of this?"

"No, Your Grace," Laena stepped forwards desperately, "I knew nothing of his plans!"

"Yet he sought to end my life." Aeron began to pick at the throne he sat on. "You yourself have caused me no small amount of offense."

"I humbly beg your pardon, Your Grace," Laena bowed her head and drifted to her knees, "my mind was wrought with grief and overwhelmed with thoughts of my father."

"A heavy heart…" Aeron nodded, "it can sink the strongest warship. Tell me, sweet sister, will you seek out your traitorous siblings? Or will you take your place as my heir? Until a son is born to me?"

Laena rose to her feet, bowing her head. "Brother, you are the eldest of us. You are the true King of the Seven Kingdoms."

Aeron's face contorted into a satisfied smile, as he stood up. "Unlike the traitor, Viserys, I do not deal death thoughtlessly. To execute another with my father's blood goes against the Gods themselves! But sister, I must be sure of your loyalty."

"I swear it. By the Old Gods and the New."

"I believe you, sister, but oaths are always broken. How can I be certain your actions will follow your words?"

"Give me a chance to prove this to you, Your Grace."

Aeron tapped the handle of the throne, his eyes travelling across the court, and falling upon Ashriel Tyrell, who had stayed silent all this time. I could almost see Aeron struggling not to smile. "Your handmaiden, Lady Ashriel, betrayed the realm by aiding and abetting Viserys' escape. What punishment would you say is fitting for the traitor?"

Laena's eyes died. They were absent of any hope, and held only despair when she turned to look at Ashriel. Ashriel looked at Laena, letting out a sad sigh as she bit her lip.

"Your Grace…" Ashriel pleaded.

"The punishment for treason is death." Laena said, her hard, cold eyes studying Ashriel. "No-one is above the law."

Aeron nodded, standing up and whispering in Lucian Lannister's ear. Lannister walked towards his men. "Lady Ashriel of the House Tyrell, you are charged with assisting the traitor, Viserys, perverting the course of justice and high treason. You will be confined to the Black Cells while awaiting trial."

 **Aeron Targaryen – The Red Keep, King's Landing, the Crownlands**

Lord Oroville Tyrell was a portly old man, who clutched onto his golden rose-hilted cane at the table. His hair was white and balding, with a thin and wispy beard shaggily cut close, and although one could tell he used to be handsome, age and stress had diminished his beauty.

His wife, the Lady Elecia, was two decades younger than her husband, and resembled her daughters more than Oroville did. The heart-shaped face, large and honey-dipped doe eyes, button nose and rose-red lips. Her dark hair was perfectly combed and bejewelled with gold and sapphire. She wore a modestly cut gown of sky blue silk, no doubt made by the Braavosi or seamstresses of Pentos. The gown looked as though she wore armour, her shoulders were strong, her waist and bust accentuated, and her gown flowing freely.

"Your Grace, please allow me to extend to you our condolences for your late father and brother. When we find the kinslayer, Viserys, we shall send him onwards to meet the punishment of the Gods!"

"Thank you, My Lord. Your passion is inspiring." I bowed my head, raising a cup of wine to him.

"King Aeron," Elecia dabbed her lips with the handerkchief, "I am very excited to discuss the marriage of you and our daughter Delyth."

"Please, forgive my wife, Your Grace. She means well…" Oroville began to apologise.

"It's quite alright," I held up a hand, "after all, it is in these times of chaos that people require order and stability. And as King, I suppose producing princes is required."

"I could not agree more, King Aeron." Elecia bowed her head. "I thought you should know of the rumours about you."

I felt my stomach lurch and my throat seize as I sipped from my cup of wine, trying to hide any emotion. I swallowed the wine and placed the cup back onto the table. "Rumours, My Lady?"

"That you murdered Draegor to seize the throne." Before I could respond, Elecia continued. "I was never particularly fond of Draegor. The boy was prone to melancholy – well, you would be, wouldn't you? The boy was a cripple – not fit to be king."

"Forgive me, My Lady," I laughed, "but it almost sounds like you believe these rumours."

"Of course not, Your Grace." Oroville chuckled. "Preposterous notions…"

"I don't mean to speak ill of the dead. Whatever happened, even if these rumours were true, has happened. You are King, that much is certain. I've talked with Delyth, who praises the ground you walk upon." I couldn't help but smile at this. Sweet Delyth, my beautiful little rose. "My husband agrees that you are a noble and fair young man. I simply wish to know this for myself."

"And so far, My Lady? Do you believe these rumours?"

"Rumours are rumours. I know that the commoners want a villain, and whoever is in power is usually painted as that villain. I heard people say that Rylon Baratheon liked the company of boys, and that Vysella Targaryen often took other men into her bed. Whose to say if these rumours of kinslaying and kingslaying have any grounds?" Elecia took a bit of roasted swan. "I simply wish to know how you intend to treat my daughter."

I watched her eat, my knife toying with my own meat as I contemplated her words. "Which one?"

"Ashriel betrayed you. Just as she betrayed us. But I've been told that you are a kind soul. Ashriel is but a child still. Pardon her. Send her to Essos, to live in exile."

"Exile? To Essos?" I leaned back in my chair, letting her plead her case.

"It's not unheard of, Your Grace. Derrick Mormont was exiled by his own parents for murder. Bennard Stark himself exiled his own bastard."

"I am not Bennard Stark." I half-laughed. I was about as far as you could be.

"No. You are a Targaryen; you are well within your rights to have your dragons devour her." Elecia Tyrell fell on one knee, gently placing a hand over my own. "But I beg you as a mother to not execute one of my daughters and wed the other. She is to be your sister, by law."

I nodded, mulling over her plea. It was true, she made valid points. But as King, I had to be sure of the loyalty of my subjects. But there was something in seeing a mother on her knees, begging for the life of her child.

"People often talk of the Seven like they are people. That they look down on us in judgement."

Elecia bowed her head and sighed before moving back to sit in her chair.

"You disagree, My King?" Oroville asked, glancing towards his wife.

"I don't deny their existence, but I believe they appear in our actions. Now, for instance, the Mother stands beside me, preaching mercy." I smiled warmly at Elecia. "But, you should know, your daughter did more than just assist Viserys. She lay with him."

"Lay with him?" Oroville bellowed, rising from his seat.

"Many times, to my knowledge."

"You forget your place, boy!" Oroville snarled. "You may be my King, but you dishonour my family with these vile lies and accusations. If you were any other man, I'd demand you draw your sword-"

"She said as much as this to me." Oroville fell silent. "I understand your fury, Lord Oroville, and as such, I will forgive your manner as it is simply a father's love for his daughter." I rose from my chair. "But you forget your place. Speak to me again in that tone, and I will become deaf to pleas of mercy." Oroville's face strained as Elecia turned to her husband, lips turning into a thin line. Oroville grimaced, and nodded with a grunt, slumping back into his chair. "You see my conundrum, Lady Elecia? If I send her into exile, she may seek out Viserys. If I keep her here, alive, she may attack me for her lover." Oroville's fist tightened at this. "How can I pardon her when she will only commit treason once again?"

"You cannot, King Aeron." Elecia spoke. "But she was surely led astray by the traitor, Viserys. It was not love; the girl does not know her own mind."

I nodded, pondering the idea. Perhaps she could be led astray… "I swear to you, before the crown I wear, the throne I sit on, and the Seven themselves, I will stay the blade of execution for a time. If she shows submission, and repents for her crimes, I will be favourable to pardon her."

Elecia let out a shaking breath and nodded at me with a smile. "Thank you, King Aeron."

"I know that the traitor Rylon arranged the match between Delyth and I, but she has proven faithful to me, and I would still count myself as the richest man in Westeros to have her hand. That is, if you would still agree to the terms, My Lord?"

Elecia and I looked at Oroville, who nodded, plastering on a beaming face. "I do, Your Grace."

"Then let us drink," I raised my cup, "and I shall call you mother and father."

"My first son is a king!" Oroville rose up from the chair with me and Elecia. "I fear you have shamed any others I may father."

"I fear I pale in comparison of the brave men of the Reach." I sipped from my drink. "If you would, My Lord, I have some business to discuss with you. It is of a delicate nature."

"Of course, Your Grace."

"I would bid you travel to Braavos in the morn."

"Braavos, Your Grace?" Oroville frowned.

"It would seem that the traitor Rylon had taken many loans from the Iron Bank during his time as Hand. I do not wish to raise taxes for my people in the time of such chaos."

"I'm sure that we could ease the burden, My King." Elecia looked to Oroville. "Perhaps Lord Lucian could also-"

"Forgive me, My Lady, but I would not procure new loans to settle old ones. No, I instead wish to settle this matter on my own." I turned around to the chest that sat on the desk. It was a small case, but emblazoned with the silver Targaryen sigil. I carried it to the table, opening it. revealing a large white scaled egg, with greying tarnishes and at the top, black scales. "This egg was meant to be given to a Targaryen Prince, who died at birth. As such, the egg never hatched."

"I remember…" Oroville nodded, "a true tragedy. Elecia and I were among the first to pay our respects on Dragonstone."

"The worst pain a parent could know." Elecia sighed.

"Lord Oroville, I ask you to travel to the Iron Bank, and offer them this as repayment for their loans. You will do so my own personal representative."

"Your personal representative, Your Grace?" Oroville's eyes widened and his lips curled.

"I can think of no-one finer. As such, you will be accompanied by a member of my Kingsguard, Ser Baldinar Baratheon."

"A Baratheon, Your Grace?" Oroville half-laughed.

"You have nothing to fear, My Lord. Ser Baldinar has bent the knee and proclaimed me as the one true king." I raised my cup again. "To peace. Once Viserys and his sister are caught, the Realm shall prosper in a time of harmony."

 **This took a while to write, but I hope you all enjoyed it! You can see things starting to move. Leave a review saying what you thought. No Thea this time, I know, but soon.**

 **The next chapter is named 'The Wolves of Winter'.**


	7. Dawn of Dusk

**Hey guys – my illness is all about clearing up, but I've written this chapter and the next one, so I'm just waiting for everyone to read this chapter (and leave a lil' review) before releasing the next one.**

 **I know this chapter was going to revolve around the Starks, but someone's going to send in the current Lord Mormont, so I'm going to hold off on the Stark chapter for a little bit. I figured I'd give you a second Essos chapter.**

 **Helesa Irniros – The Princess, The Drowned Town, Braavos**

Finn's room at _The Princess_ was small, with a tiny bed crammed into the corner of the room, and an open window on the other side of the room, looking out at the stone roof of some forgotten building, which acted as a sort of pier. Instead of ships, you only found the flat-bottomed boats drifting by the deliver all sorts of shady characters to the winesink.

"My Westerosi?" I asked, clasping the bedsheet closer to my body.

"Yes, my Braavosi?" I heard Finn's warm voice from the bed.

"I'd had a dream that you'd left…" I said, letting his voice wrap around my ears like his strong arms. Looking back to him, I examined my Finn Snow. His dark hair had been washed clean or sweat and salt, falling across the ripped pillowcase. His dark eyes opened gradually as he sat up. Those sharp features and pale skin, with a strong jaw lined with dark stubble. There was something to the way he spoke – as if he was either in full control of everything around him, or he simply just did not give a damn. I walked back to bed, sitting down beside him. "You won't leave soon, will you?"

"Not until the Iron Bank gets their delivery." Finn murmured, pulling at the bedsheet wrapped around me, and grinning upon gazing at my bare skin. "Besides, I've enough silver to keep me comfortable for a time." Finn's fingers grazed along my breast for a moment before he swept his hair back. "Maybe we could book passage somewhere?"

"Book passage?" I frowned. "Where? Back to Westeros?"

Finn looked away for a moment before he scoffed and rose from bed. "My father would execute me himself." Finn crossed the room to the small table that held a bottle of rum, which he picked up.

"Your own father? He would kill you?"

"You wouldn't understand – he's a Stark." Finn mocked the name, taking a good measure of the rum.

"But… he's your father."

"Aye, and he sent me to the other side of the world to rot when I was seventeen!" Finn snapped at me, dark hair falling down in front of his face. I blamed myself – I knew Finn could be like this. In the four years I had known him, he was always flippant and cavalier about everything apart from the Starks. He immediately grew wild and hot with fury. It happened so often, I had neither the effort nor the time to waste trying to convince him otherwise.

"So," I moved out of bed to find my dress, "where would we sail to?"

"Ey?"

"If we were to book passage?"

Finn turned around, leaning against the table, "Pentos, maybe? Perhaps Volantis?"

"Pentos? Volantis?"

"Pentos is the wrong way around the world for a courtesan." I sighed. Finn shrugged, his lip curling into his signature crooked, toothy grin.

"Lys, maybe?"

I actually chuckled at this, walking across the room with my cotte and walking into Finn's arms. "So, you won't return to Westeros with me and give me a castle?" I asked in a sarcastic frown. Finn rolled his eyes.

"There ain't nothing there for me."

"Not your brothers? Or your sister-"

"They cast me out long ago." Finn stated, brushing a finger across my lip. "This is my home now."

I smiled and moved forwards to press my own lips against his, feeling him pull me closer, a hand beginning to slip my cotte back off my body. However, we were interrupted by shouting outside. Finn looked up at the ceiling with a groan as I leant out, seeing Finn's Dothraki companion, Mikko, exclaiming angrily at Belos and Hilario.

"I think you should attend to this."

"Aye… before swords are drawn." Finn agreed, walking to the chair and picking up his muddy brown breeches. He began to pull on his boots as I tied back his hair into a small bun. I passed him his white shirt and brown doublet, fastening the arms and pulling at the sleeves of his shirt for good measure.

 **Finn Snow –** _ **The**_ **Princess, The Drowned Town, Braavos**

As I walked out, I fastened the belt with my wolfshead knife around my waist, carrying the second belt with my arakh as I walked across the floor of the winesink, past the stumbling drunkards. It was this that I praised most about the Free Cities. Apart from the Sealord, there were no kings or queens or lords to bow and scrap to. Instead, there was the Sealord and the Iron Bank. I was better off here than in Westeros, I knew it for certain.

As I came outside, onto the stone roof that stood a couple of feet above sea level, I heard Mikko more clearly.

"Your brains are baked, old man!" Mikko shouted at Belos. "You hear me? It's a fool's errand!"

"That doesn't very Dothraki to me…" Hilario muttered to himself, sat on one of the barrels, an arm draped across his eyes in exasperation.

"What's all this then?" I held my arms out, looking at the trio.

"Blackdog's been appointed as the new Captain of the Guard of the Iron Bank."

I waited for Hilario to elaborate, which he did not. I shrugged, looking at Belos and Mikko. "Is that supposed to mean something?"

Mikko turned to Belos in anger. "Tell him!" He demanded, pointing at me. Belos sighed.

"Blackdog has been talking about the incoming shipment, which holds the jewel you plan to steal. It arrives in the next few days."

"So all's going according to plan?" I asked, walking over to Hilario, and smacking him gently to get off the barrel.

"Blackdog is anxious to defend the jewel from thieves. He's hired Sȳndor āzma to consult on the Iron Bank's defences. Which means if there's any weaknesses we can exploit, she will rectify that."

"Sȳndor āzma?" I frowned. "The Shadowborn?"

Belos nodded. "She's a talented young thief. Nothing more than a myth, according to most people. Has a guild of thieves across the city."

"Shadowborn… Blackdog…" I turned to Helesa, who had joined us by this time, her russet curls and full lips hidden behind her veil, "where do they come up with these names?"

"I suppose it makes them feel somewhat important." Hilario shrugged.

"Coming from the Smiling Reaper, himself?" I scoffed at Hilario's name. Trust him to come up with something like that for himself. Not to say he didn't live up to the name, he just thought he was the best swordsman to walk in Braavos. Which, clearly was wrong; I had returned. I turned to Mikko, "At least the Butcher was a tad intimidating…"

"Who?" Mikko frowned.

"The Butcher. That pit fighter, back in Mereen."

"That was no Butcher," Mikko shook his head, "Butcher was slaver in Lys."

"Oh…" I scratched my jaw, "who am I thinking of? You know, the great big hog back in Mereen? Grisly scars, all across his face?"

"…The Bull?"

"That's it!" I exclaimed. "The Bull…" I laughed, "… why did I think he was called the Butcher?" I mused.

"Does it matter?" Belos rolled his eyes.

"Not anymore." I grinned, tapping my arakh – a souvenir. The Bull's horn.

"You need to deal with the Shadowborn or quit this scheme." Helesa stated. We all turned around to face her. This was Helesa – always the first to decide on a course of action while the rest of us were drinking and growing bawdy. I passed the bottle to Hilario.

"You reckon?" I asked her. She shrugged.

"This plan hinges on the Iron Bank having vulnerabilities. Otherwise, it's a fool's errand."

"Oh, it's not already?" Hilario laughed. I mulled this over for a moment. She was right – there was no getting the jewel if the Shadowborn was as formidable as we were led to believe.

"Alright, I'll kill the girl then." I began to fasten up my doublet.

"You'd kill a woman?" Hilario asked, no chipper tone or jibe in his voice.

"She stands between me and my prize." I explained.

"You talk an awful lot about this 'prize' of yours, Snow." Belos sat beside Hilario, taking out his rapier and beginning to wipe down the blade. "What do you plan to do with it?"

"I don't know," I shrugged, "I'll book passage somewhere. Set myself up with land and influence…"

I was interrupted by Belos' deep chuckle. "Still peddling that twaddle, Snow?" Belos turned to Mikko. "He's been like this since he landed her. Acting like he doesn't dream of slinking back to his fancy keep in Winterfell every day!"

I found my hand on my wolfshead knife, my thumb tracing every carving. I could still remember receiving it for my nameday – the only present I'd ever received. It was the last thing I had that connected me to the Starks, save my hair and eyes. The ironwood wolfshead pommel was the North. It was Winterfell. It was Markas stumbling after a mere three cups of ale. It was Evie crying when she thought Markas would die after I landed a hit with a wooden sword. It was Tylan barking, thinking he was a direwolf. It was my father's face – that day when I felt, if only for a moment, like I was truly a Stark of Winterfell, and not just a bastard named Snow.

"The Starks mean nothing to me," I claimed, "and you'll do well to remember that, Vollys."

 **I really enjoyed this chapter – less introductions, and more development. I mean, is it even a heist if there aren't external complications? Anyway, leave a review – the next chapter is aptly named '** _ **Lord of the Flayed**_ **'. I've got a couple of pretty big 'wow' chapters coming up. Also, I think I've finished the storyline for this instalment, so it should be around 22 chapters roughly.**

 **I've pretty much figured out how I want these stories to climax, I'm just figuring out how to get there more. As you can expect, more storylines will be merged together, much like the show's penultimate season.**

 **I've also renamed this series from '** _ **The Dragon's Bastard**_ **' to '** _ **Three Heads of the Dragon**_ **'. Make of that what you will, but there's a very big reason as to why, and it's linked heavily to the ending.**

 **Anyhoo, leave a review and let me know what you thought. I'm still open to accepting characters! Some Bolton Bannermen would be nice, since at the moment, I've received… well… none.**

 **Not all on the Bolton side are evil guys. Look at Alvar, look at Alara.**


	8. The Vigilant

**So, there's a bit of an issue with FanFiction – I can't see any of the reviews past chapter 6… which sucks.**

 **Though, I can go into my e-mails and find them, it is kinda annoying to have to do so. But, I've been able to read most of the reviews (some do end up being cut a bit).**

 **Anyhoo… enjoy this chapter.**

 **Katya Whitehill – The Dreadfort, the North**

I felt strange. Everything seemed solid. Real. But, at the same time, there was so much space between everything. It was as though I could slip outside of my body and look at myself. For anyone who called me 'Kitty', I'd be able to point at my own body and say 'that's not Kitty. I am not Kitty. Kitty is somewhere inside _her_.'

I had Kitty's memories of when I was a child. She used to play with her younger brothers, Tibby and Lirry. All three of them were wilful and adventurous children. Then their mother died giving birth to a dead babe. Kitty had to become the Lady of Highpoint, and had no time to play with her brothers anymore. Whenever Tibby was scared, Kitty always let him sleep in her bed. They went for rides often, and enjoyed swimming.

But those incessant rumours of servants. How depraved and fractured were their minds? To see a brother and a sister spend so much time together and assume Tibby must have been inside Kitty on those nights…

May the Gods curse them. But not Kitty's father. No, he sent her away to serve Theadosia Bolton at the Dreadfort. And that was when I was made. I wouldn't say born – I couldn't have been born. I wasn't exactly human, as it were. I was… something. Kitty transformed into me, but I wasn't her.

I was Katya of House Whitehill.

Raff finished tying his grey breeches, pulling on a grey shirt, looking at my bare body. He didn't like me pulling the sheets back up, as he enjoyed gazing at my body.

"I'll be back in a while. As soon as I've finished with Markas Stark as I did his father…" Raff chuckled to himself.

It felt awful, knowing he had been inside me. The marks still sat upon my shoulders from where his nails had dug into me. He hadn't been especially hateful or cruel towards me. Not in a blatant way, by any means. No, he simply ordered me and I obeyed. He just didn't care much about me.

But, the sickness that I felt was good. It was human, and it reminded me I hadn't fallen as far as him. He even looked Ironborn, with his primitive clothes, absent of any long surcoats. Just the short, blue woollen doublet and breeches. He sheathed his hand-axe and turned back to me. He smacked his hand against my bare arse, and smiled as I let out a small gasp at the stinging pain.s

"Keep the bed warm for me, will you?" I chose not to respond, and Raff simply smirked at this, unsheathing the small, thin blade from his belt and walking towards the tapestry that hung beside the bed. He pressed the blade against one of the tassels, letting it drop to the floor.

Something moved inside me. I had to jump up and grab the tassel, examining the damage. It hadn't been frayed, due to the sharpness of his blade. I darted towards the table, opening the drawer and finding Lady Theadosia's embroidery tools.

"Quickly now." Raff sang with a chuckle as he began to cut another tassel.

"Raff."

We both looked to see Lord Alvar there, clad in a dark, patched cloak with the sigil of the flayed man on the leather straps. I covered my body out of respect and bowed my head.

"Father." Raff sheathed the knife on his belt.

"What are you doing in Thea's room?"

"Her." Raff nodded towards me. Alvar examined me for a moment.

"Get your clothes, Lady Whitehill." Alvar said gruffly. I curtsied and walked over to the bed, beginning to done my kirtle. "Raff, you were meant to be riding to Hornwood."

"Aye. Ironborn don't go to war without a bit of luck-"

"You're not Ironborn." Alvar stated. "You're a Bolton. You'd do well to act like one." Alvar turned towards me. "Katya, go to the kitchens and get yourself some food."

"Thank you, My Lord." I curtsied again and quickly left the room, scratching my hand as I kept thinking about the tassle that lay on the stone floor. Later on, I would go back to Lady Theadosia's room and sew it back on. I knew I could hide the damage, but I would always know that it was there.

 **Alvar Bolton – The Dreadfort, The North**

Raff was a fool. An unparalleled warrior, true, but he was a Bolton. My first-born. He needed to be a ruler more than he needed to be a warrior. I sat in my chambers, reading the histories of the Red Kings. I didn't need to read these, since I could write all of them myself from memory, but Raff could have done with a good read.

Theadosia was as sharp as my knife, and twice as deadly. She had her aunt's face, but not her kind nature. No, Thea was… curious. She'd often plucked the legs off of the bodies of spiders, and watched them limp and scramble like a cat playing with it's food.

Out of my children, there was only one who was truly good. That I would have been proud to call mine.

The door knocked and in entered the Balien Flint. He was a strong, stocky young man, nearing his fourth decade of life. He still had the same charm and bumbling awkwardness he possessed as a child, though I was proud to know him. I had known his father, who had always been a little too… quiet for the likes of other northmen. But, I had always found him pleasant. And I happily found that Balien was just like his father.

"Lord Bolton."

"Lord Flint." I rose from my chair, embracing him in my arms. "I'm glad to see you've arrived unharmed."

"Aye. We left as soon as we heard the Starks had taken White Harbour." Balien moved to sit in the chair opposite me, watching the crackling fire dancing on the logs of firewood. "They've taken Hornwood too now?"

"Aye." I nodded, eyes on the fire. Thank the Gods that Alara hadn't been there.

"They've bent the knee." Balien informed me. "The Starks won't stop crowing about it."

"I'm aware." I stated. "We'll give them the chance to answer for their crimes."

Balien leant back in his chair, looking around the chamber, and finding the tankard of ale. He pushed himself out of his chair and poured us both a cup. "I had hoped to see Alara here." Balien murmured. I smiled at this – I remembered how I'd talked about Melissa Hornwood with such coy affection.

"She's accompanying Thea to King's Landing." I took the cup from Balien.

"To what ends?"

"Business with the Crown. After all, once the Starks are done, the Boltons shall be heralded as Wardens of the North." Balien let out a short sigh, and leant back in the chair, ruffling his dark matted hair. His skin was somewhat dry, as were his lips. A typical Flint – much like the Manderlys, they spent a lot of their life on the sea. "You seem displeased."

"Forgive me, Alvar," Balien sat forwards, "but we've been at war with them for as long as I can remember."

"Four years-" I began.

"The war started many years before that, and you know it."

I nodded. "Aye. When Ben Stark took my sister from me. She hid her pregnancy from me – no-one at the Dreadfort knew about it."

"He didn't take her, Alvar. She left."

"He whelped a bastard with her. A fucking Snow…" I hissed, standing up and turning away, swallowing my ale in one. The idea of him dishonouring my sister like that… the last part of her was met with scorn and shame.

"That's an interesting comment, Alvar. Especially coming from you."

"Careful, Balien." I whirled around and pointed the cup at him. "You tread on thin ice."

"I apologise, Alvar." Balien held up his hands. We stayed like that for a moment before I resumed my place in the chair opposite him. "You still haven't told her?"

"Why would I?"

"The girl deserves to know who her father is. And who her mother was, to that point-"

"I'll not have her cast down and called a Snow." I insisted.

"Then when this is war is won, tell her." Balien implored me. "Tell her Melissa was her mother, not her aunt."

"I'll not shatter everything the girl knows." I sat back, looking into the flames as I thought about her. That frizzy ashen hair, just like her mother. She had the same eyes as Thea, all large and light and grey. Just like Maryana used to. "Alara has been raised a Hornwood." I walked over to refill my cup.

"Your mind is made up?"

"Aye."

"Mother has been hounding me to ask for her hand." Balien let out a nervous laugh. I smiled at the memory of talking to Melissa's father, Gormund.

"I'm sure she has. Quite a vivacious woman, your mother…" I sipped my ale, "I'm sorry to say that she'll change her mind once I talk to her."

"Alvar?"

I sat down again. "Balien, I know you care about Alara. But, as you well know, affection rarely plays any involvement in marriage. Raff is… he's too focused on his games. Bloody Greyjoy…" I sighed, "I never should have sent him there."

"No. You shouldn't have." Balien's light emerald eyes locked on my own. I knew his story well enough. His father was on a ship that, according to the crew, was set upon by Ironborn, led by the fearsome Sigurd Greyjoy. Raff often bragged about the raids the two of them went on during his time on the Iron Islands.

"Do you know what makes a nation strong?"

Balien rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair. "It's army?"

"It's reputation. It's why my ancestors flayed their enemies and wore their skin as cloaks. Why we named this very keep you sit in the Dreadfort. Terror is how you get your power, and alliances with Great Houses is how you keep it. Raff has proven useful for me – his time on the Iron Islands has ensured peace with the Ironborn, and his betrothal to Lyra ensures me of the Lannister House's loyalty and support."

"So, you won't do anything?"

"We are yet to be a Great House while the Starks still draw breath. Once they are wiped out, root and stem, I will investigate your father's death. You have my word."

Balien nodded. "As for Alara?"

"My wife is mad. My only son is a brute. It seems that my daughter, Thea, is the child most suitable to inherit my lands. But she lacks a… human touch. You, Balien, do not."

I saw his eyes narrow in confusion and then widen as he came to understand me.

"You cannot be serious…"

"She needs a husband, Balien. And I will not have Raff destroy my House-"

"I've heard the tales, Alvar. I've heard what she does in this keep."

"You've not seen her in years, Balien." I reasoned. "At least reserve your doubts until you clap eyes on her." Balien chewed his lip in thought. "I know you had your heart set on Alara, but I will talk to your mother. She will thank you for this."

Eventually, Balien nodded. "Aye. I consent."

 **So many plot twists… Now you can look back and connect all the dots to those long looks Alvar gave Alara…**

 **But yeah – leave a review, I'm still reading the via e-mail updates. If anyone can tell me why I can't see them, I'd appreciate it…**

 **The next chapter is that Stark chapter I promised, named** _ **The Winds of the North**_

 **Catch you on the flippity-flop**

 **R.**


	9. Winds of the North

**This is just a short chapter. I'm uploading two at the same time today, so don't worry. It's just because it's a bit of an action-packed chapter, and I didn't want it to grow stale.**

 **Oh, reviews are back up – thanks to everyone who's been informing me it's just a bit of a glitch on the site.**

 **Also, 60 reviews for 8 chapters? That's phenomenal – thank you so much, I love the amount of enthusiasm you guys are giving, it's so great to see!**

 **Raff Bolton – Oldcastle, The North**

Markas Stark… I have to admit, the boy had a mind for tactics. After taking White Harbour and Hornwood, our numbers were diminished, but it seems that the little wolf hadn't expected the Bolton and Umber armies to fall upon him at Oldcastle.

His men fought with a great deal of ferocity. Red Cedric Glover killed scores of men with his axe, and Ichabod Cerwyn had released the brute caged inside him, roaring triumphantly as he cut down man after man after man.

Most men would have felt terror or anxiety in the face of such opposition, but I reveled in it. Slaughtering Stark and Cerwyn and Glover and Mormont soldiers alike. The Locke troops rode out from Oldcastle, and the Starks found themselves fighting a battle on two fronts.

I swung around my axe, imbedding it in the spine of a Mormont soldier as I looked around to see Markas Stark there, holding his lofty greatsword, Ice. Valyrian steel… I'd always wanted a Valyrian steel blade. Stark locked eyes with me – those light grey eyes like my own. His ebony hair was matted in blood, dirt smudged against his cheeks. I grinned, wrenching my axe from the Mormont soldier. An Umber soldier tried to rush past me; I grabbed his neck, throwing him onto the ground and taking his sword from him. I turned back to see Markas Stark, who gripped the greatsword tentatively, studying my movement. I pointed the sword at him.

"That sword's too big for you boy!" I called, and rushed towards him.

I ducked under the blade, and swung the axe into his pauldron, denting it. Stark fell backwards, recovering quickly.

"Going to run back home to your mother, craven?" I shouted at him, pressing the attack. Stark was almost as big as me, and perhaps he would have stood a chance if he had received proper training. But he was a fucking Stark – so arrogant as a child to believe no-one would ever oppose their rule.

Stark raised his blade to block my blow, and my sword shattered upon impact with his. I took a step back, holding my now empty hand in front. Stark lunged at me, but I quickly stepped out of the side of his blade, sweeping my leg behind his ankle and knocking him to the floor.

"Bolton scum!" I turned to see Rolan Mormont leap at me. Rolan the Grim, he was named. A beast of a man, clad in a dark gambeson of scaled armour. He'd earned a reputation on the Iron Islands. During the raids, after the fool Ben Stark travelled South, the Ironborn had occupied Bear Island. That is, until Rolan lead a militia of farmhands and stable boys and reclaimed the island, beheading the Ironborn and mounting their heads on pikes.

Gods, I hadn't had a fight like this in years.

Rolan twirled that great bastard sword of his, Longclaw, and raised his oaken shield, decorated with the black bear of the Mormont House. He swiped at me, making me double back, and continued to press the attack. I grabbed a soldier beside me, throwing him into Rolan, but Rolan simply clove the man in two and turned his attention back to me.

He was the age of my own father, but like his overlords, Mormont was a stubborn old goat. He cursed and yelled as he continued pressing his attack. I blocked and parried, but found no opening to return an attack. That is, until Markas Stark fell to the ground with an arrow in his chest.

 **Ichabod Cerwyn** **– Oldcastle, The North**

Such a young boy, lying on the ground, fists ripping out grass as he gasped for air. He didn't see me there, but I saw him. Dying on the floor… he'd surely live if he was attended to. But as soon as I took a step towards him, I stopped, and in that moment, I saw an end to the war.

We could hold off the Boltons for another few years. In that time, Tylan could learn to become a suitable Lord. We'd train him in weapons, tactics, and prepare him to destroy the Boltons. He had less memory of his father than his siblings. Easier to mould… as soon as his mother, the Stone Wolf, was separated from him. Boys died all the time in war, and Markas Stark was not the man to end this war. I'd say he was barely even a man.

I took a step backwards, looking to see the Bolton forces retreat, with Raff Bolton being dragged backwards from the fray. It seemed Raff Bolton's work was done, with Markas Stark ready to die in the dirt.

And then Rolan Mormont ran forwards to him. Of course he did – a loyal bear. He snapped off the shaft of the arrow that protruded from Markas' armpit, and the Redbeard moved in front of them both, protecting them.

Damned Glover… he was prolonging the war with this action. I rushed over to them, putting Markas' arm around my neck.

"My Lord," Rolan shouted to Markas, "Raff Bolton is retreating!"

"We'll get the cunt…" Redbeard growled as our men pushed forwards past us, forming a line to protect their Lords.

"My Lord, the Umbers are overwhelming the Mormont troops!" Rolan pointed to the banners of chains that enveloped the Mormonts. Markas staggered slightly, looking back to Raff Bolton, who had mounted a horse. He turned back to the Mormonts and took a breath to regain his strength.

"Rally the armies. Protect the Mormonts." He ordered Redbeard.

"Are you fucking touched, lad? We could end this war. If we kill Raff, we can route his armies-"

"Alvar is Lord Bolton, not Raff." Markas interrupted Redbeard.

Redbeard snarled, but rallied his troops and turned to protect the left flank of Mormonts. Markas Stark, the Foolish Wolf. Just as much of a cretin as his father. Mormont carried Markas away, to find a healer.

Gods, the boy couldn't have just died on the field.

 **Yup – the Battle of Oldcastle. Please leave a little review saying what you thought of this little injection of action. The next chapter is back in King's Landing, named '** _ **A Rose Withered**_ **'.**


	10. A Rose Withered

**Just a disclaimer: this chapter is not for the faint of hearted. I'm pretty good with horror and gore and stuff, and I found this awful to write. So, you have been warned.**

 **Lucian Lannister – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

I finished talking with my idiot of a nephew, Addam, about positioning the troops. The boy had no head for battle. In fact, he lacked the mind for anything of great import, but he was a Lannister. We were the Wardens of the West, and he would represent the House on the field of battle beside me.

The Lannister forces would remain at Casterly Rock, protecting my lands from the villainous Ironborn attacks. Meanwhile, the men I'd supplied to the Royal Army would march south to Storm's End, and take it by force.

I'd talked with Lord Oroville before he departed for Braavos, and he had agreed to station a garrison of five hundred men to hold the keep, while Oroville used the Tyrell forces to hold the Stormlands and the Reach against the Dornish hordes.

King Aeron sat in his chair, tapping a finger against the table as he nodded, listening to our advice and pausing to ponder it before agreeing. The boy had no experience in war, but seemed to grasp the basics of tactics and strategy fairly quickly. Everyone began to leave, until it was just Aeron and myself left.

"Your Grace?" I cleared my throat. "I wished to talk to you about my daughter?"

"Lyra." King Aeron nodded. "I remember her. She disputed my legitimacy, if my mind serves me accurately."

"She's always been troublesome…" I shifted in my chair, "too much of a mind, that girl. Too… boisterous. I had previously hoped she may learn grace and courtesy as a handmaiden-"

"As a handmaiden to the traitorous Baratheons." King Aeron cut me off. I kept my mouth closed, examining exactly how to word my sentence before daring to move my tongue.

"I had chosen to believe the best in Rylon, My King."

Aeron's eyes studied me intensely. The violet darting around my face, examining the smallest twitch of a cheek or lick of the lips. I couldn't help but realize how little he resembled Rhaegon. Some saw the resemblance, but I suppose that was simply the silver hair and violet eyes. Though his face was pointed, true; like most of the Targaryens. Aeron eventually gave me a warm, friendly smile.

"You are truly a shrewd man, Lord Hand. But I prize absolutely honesty and loyalty before ought else."

I nodded, taking his smile as a gesture to mean I could speak freely. Even so, I still took a moment to form a sentence in my head.

"Rylon Baratheon was not always dubbed a traitor, My King. He served in my position as Hand for twenty long years."

"And yet, he did nothing to quell the War in the North. Nor did he settle the Ironborn Raids of the South. In fact, I believe it was a Stark who rode South to repel them near two decades ago?"

"That is correct My King…" I tried not to grit my teeth. Hearing him praise the actions of Stark men… the Northerners didn't understand finery or subtlety. No, they were brutes and beasts, who spent most of their time fighting each other.

"He even travelled to Dragonstone to herald the birth of my half-brother. Before he knew of his death, of course." Aeron continued.

"As did I, My King!" I hastily informed him. "I was among the first to offer my condolences, before Lord Oroville or the traitor, Rylon." Aeron smiled and nodded, standing up and going to leave the chamber. "My King?" I stood up. "My daughter…?"

"Ah…" Aeron stroked his chin in thought, "she served Haylise Baratheon."

"I know, but she will learn humility!" I pleaded with him. I had heard of Elecia Tyrell's attempt which had been successful, to an extent. "I intend to wed her to Raff of House Bolton."

"Bolton?" Aeron thought for a moment. "Ah, the Northern House."

"She will learn what it means to be a Lady there, I assure you. The Boltons are a true and loyal house, and she will be educated-"

"Forgive me, My Lord, but aren't the Boltons currently rebelling against House Stark? Therefore, they are in open rebellion against the Crown?"

"Bennard Stark stole Lord Alvar Bolton's sister, and put a baby in her belly. He then exiled his own ba-" I caught myself, "his own natural son, Finn Snow."

"Starks…" Aeron shook his head. As he opened his mouth, our future queen, Delyth Tyrell entered.

"My Dragon!" Delyth curtsied.

"My Rose." Aeron bowed, taking Delyth in his arms.

"My Lady." I bowed deeply to Delyth.

"Lord Hand. I wanted to talk to you about our impending wedding…" Delyth began to stroke her light ashen-brown hair curled and worn like a proper Southern Lady. However, she wore her hair like a woman from the Reach – like her mother. Not like the traitors Haylise or Visenya. No finery or intricate braids woven together. Just her beauty.

"I'll dwell on the matter, Lord Hand." Aeron informed me. "You have my word."

"And you have a wisdom few men manage to find at twice your age." I pressed my arm across my chest, bowing once again. "Now, My Lady, what did you want to discuss?"

"We need to re-plan the wedding. I won't just be a Princess, I will be Queen."

"Indeed you will, My Lady," I offered my arm, which she took, "and what a Queen you shall be." I looked to Aeron, who simply chuckled.

"I'm afraid that Delyth has her mind settled on a particular wedding. Let her have whatever she wants – you are Hand, after all."

I bowed my head. "Your Grace."

Delyth curtsied, "My Dragon."

"My beautiful Rose." Aeron bowed back as we left the chamber.

 **Ashriel Tyrell – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

I had been moved from the black cells to another chamber – a forgotten dungeon that was the size of an old chamber. Straw was strewn across the stone slabs, and the only light came from the torches that burnt brightly all along the walls.

It was in this time I had, waiting for the meal to learn what time it must have been. Maggot-ridden bread meant it was lunch, and therefore just after noon. I wondered how well Laena must have been eating. She had betrayed me, and therefore, must have been returned to her former diet by that traitorous bastard, Aeron.

All Targaryens had traitors blood, it seemed. All except Viserys. Beautiful, brave and noble Viserys. Viserys the Bold. My Dragon. Just thinking about him, alive, out there somewhere, was enough for me to endure the pain and starvation.

The iron door clanked open and Laena was led inside by Ser Howland Swann.

"Laena?" I asked. "Your Grace. Why are you here?" My heart leapt up and hammered against my bones. She must have come to rescue me. I knew my hope was not misplaced.

How foolish I was. Aeron sauntered inside after her.

"We thought you may enjoy the company." Aeron stated, looking around the chamber. "Gods, this is dismal… it's like I'm back in the Fingers." He let out a small chuckle. I remained silent. I would not give in to his taunts. "No clever jibe? No witty retort? You won't call me 'bastard' or 'murderer'?"

Murderous bastard indeed. I wouldn't talk to him. I refused to give in. I would not say a single word to the man, I would steel myself against him.

"Well… no matter. You don't need to say anything." He nodded at Ser Howland, who chained Laena to the wall. Aeron walked towards me, letting a hand lie on my hip. "Your mother begged for me to spare your life, you know. She wanted you to live in exile." I refused to look at him. "Still… I suppose she believes that you have come to your senses. Viserys is a prince, after all. How many bedwarmers did he have?"

"I was no bedwarmer." It slipped out. I couldn't stop my own mouth from rebutting Aeron.

"No? Well, you certainly weren't his wife. No, that's a title Haylise the Ruined holds." I felt my jaw clench and my hands ball into fists. I did not need reminding. "Of course, you know this. Viserys toyed with you, Ashriel. Just as your beloved Laena betrayed you." Aeron turned to look at Laena, who watched the flames of the torch with great focus and terror. "They'll never want us, Ashriel." Aeron crooned into my ear. "But I am a merciful King. Pledge yourself to me, and I will be lenient. You are to be my sister. I do not wish to remove such a pretty head. And it is a pretty head…" I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from replying. I felt my stomach lurch as Aeron gently slipped a finger across my jaw, the other hand removing a knife.

"No…" Laena let out a short whimper. Aeron turned to her with a grin.

"Gods… I'm not going to kill the girl." Aeron chortled, turning back to me, and jerking a thumb to Laena while he shook his head. He then took the knife, and slipped it across my kirtle. My bare skin touched the cold stone behind me, and I could feel the dirt and grease creep across my skin. Aeron turned back to Laena, unbuckling his belt. "What do you think Viserys would do, if he found out his favourite whore swaddled my bastard?" He gave a sickly grin of perfect white teeth, before turning his pointed, knife-like face back to me.

' _Just tell yourself it's Viserys_ '. I thought, scrunching my eyes shut. ' _Just tell yourself it's Viserys_.'

 **Yeah, this chapter got dark. Like… I've done sadism and psychological torture, but this is on a whole other level.**

 **I hope no-one's offended. If you are, please tell me why, and accept my apologies – I've tried to be as unbiased and realistic in depicting the awful things people can do, as well as not trying to turn it into a cliché.**

 **Moreover, I'm thinking about releasing an appendice of sorts after these stories are finished – they'll basically be all about the symbolism I lace into these chapters, my own thoughts on the characters and their motivations, as well as historical figures / times / places that I drew influence from. Let me know if you guys would enjoy reading that.**

 **Leave a review detailing your thoughts, and what you think of the plotlines so far. The next chapter is named '** _ **A Dragon's Storm**_ **'. And yes, we're back in Storm's End.**


	11. A Dragon's Storm

**So… not the longest chapter, but I'm moving the plot forwards and… well, you'll see. Someone called it, but enjoy!**

 **Viserys Targaryen – Storm's End, The Stormlands**

I'd never seen Storm's End before. Though, I'd heard the stories of torrential downpours, with wind howling ceaselessly against the thick castle walls. I knew it had earned it's name. It was often said that hard land bred hard men. And while the Ironborn may have boasted of this, I knew that the men of the Stormlands were true warriors in Westeros.

They had held back the Dornish armies from the Realm for years. Centuries of constant on-going skirmishes across the Red Mountains. They'd never thought to look North for a threat.

And then Aeron had been crowned King.

I landed with Moonfyre outside the castle, letting her roar and screech to announce our arrival. Men had sullied out onto the curtain walls to draw their bows, but it was only when Haylise and I dismounted and Moonfyre jettisoned back into the skies above that they opened their gates.

Storm's End was nothing I'd ever seen before. There was no sprawling city, no great sept or bustling trade. Instead, there were a pair of blacksmiths, hammering their blazing steel, all the crossguards of the swords fashioned into antlers.

Out of the keep, a familiar boy walked out. He was small and meek, but had the same dark Baratheon hair as Haylise, and the same piercing, hard blue eyes. Ryleigh, Haylise's younger brother. The girl beside Ryliegh, however, I did not recognize. She was incredibly pale, dressed in a rather poor, simple dark gown under a thick fur cloak. Her hair was an ashen shade of brown, and her eyes were a pale flint tone. Freckles lightly dusted her small and pretty nose. In fact, the girl in general was small and pretty. So tiny and delicate, I wondered why she hadn't collapsed from the weight of the cloak. It was only when she came closer, moving an arm from under her cloak, I saw the sigil of a grey direwolf embroidered onto her dress.

She was the Stark girl.

"Your Grace." Ryleigh knelt. The Stark girl looked anxiously from Ryleigh to me before kneeling with the rest of the courtyard. I clasped my hands; I was used to people kneeling, but not to being heralded as King.

"Arise?" I said after a moment, watching them all stand. Haylise moved forwards to Ryleigh, hugging him tightly.

"Thank the Seven, Ryleigh…" Haylise let out a breath of relief.

"I heard about King's Landing…" Ryleigh began to explain. "Father's…"

"I know." Haylise nodded. She then looked to see the Stark girl, who looked about as self-conscious as I was. "You must be Evalyn Stark."

"Yes, My Lady- Your Grace. Apologies, Your Grace." The girl curtsied. She spoke with a soft northern twang – I don't think I'd ever heard a Northerner talk before.

"That's quite alright. I hear we're to be sisters." Haylise smiled, taking Evie in her arms.

"Lord Baratheon," I moved forwards, "Aeron the Pretender has wrong us both." I took a breath. I didn't know much about politics or how to conduct myself. But I knew war. "I wish to join forces with you, and discuss re-taking King's Landing."

Ryleigh nodded, gulping. "Come, Your Grace, let us speak more inside…"

 **Haylise Baratheon – Storm's End, The Stormlands**

Ryleigh and Viserys had left to consult with Ayric Dondarrion about the castle's defense, and inquire as to how many men they could spare to march on King's Landing. Though Ryleigh wanted me to join for support, I knew it wasn't my place. I could not be seen as holding Ryleigh's hand – he was Lord now. He needed to know what that meant. Viserys was there, his brother by marriage, to show him how to lead. I trusted no-one else more.

I stood in the hall, looking at the tapestry of our family that hung between two windows. It had been commissioned eight years ago. It felt strange looking back at us then – before everything changed. The five of us stood in front of Storm's End. In the front, stood father, next to Rylon. Father rested his hands on his large Warhammer, while Baldinar stood beside him, a hand on the scabbard his sword sat in. Ryleigh stood in front of them, the smallest of the men in the picture. Even then, when father and Baldinar were muscular and broad-shouldered, Ryleigh was tiny. I stood next to mother, whose blonde hair was worn up in intricate braids. I looked nothing like her, regardless of what father had always said to me. I stood beside her, meek, at the mere age of twelve.

The door opened, and I turned to see Evie there. The pretty little jewel from the North.

"Forgive me, Your Grace." Evie curtsied and went to leave.

"It's okay, Evie." I smiled. "I was just thinking about my parents…" I looked back at the pair of them. But, I couldn't bring myself to remember them. I suppose there was very little time, what with the impending war… I couldn't find the strength within myself to weather the pain I'd feel at the thought us hunting together. At Father roaring and cursing when he failed to fell a stag. Or how he'd scoff at Ryleigh insisting on staying with mother and I while he and Baldinar hunted together.

"We have a tapestry in Winterfell." Evie informed me, moving up to stand next to me and look up at it. "Father never liked it though."

"Why's that?" I smiled. It felt nice to just… talk. No war or strategies – just talking.

"He said it lacked someone…" Evie bit her lip before letting out a sigh.

"How old are you, Evie?"

"Fifteen, Your Grace."

"Fifteen, and already betrothed…" I chuckled. "It took father a while to arrange a match for me. No-one wanted to be with Haylise the Ruined."

"Viserys did, Your Grace."

I scoffed at this. "I think we both know that marriages are made by our fathers." I moved away to pour myself a cup of wine, picking at the roasted venison. "But Viserys has been kind to me. And I can promise you that Ryleigh will be too. He's a gentle soul."

"I like him very much, Your Grace." Evie smiled. It was warm, rather than polite. Genuine. "He's not what I expected."

"And you aren't what I expected. I've thought all Starks were honourable fools." I sighed. "I apologise… that was rude."

"Honour is all we have in the North." Evie turned away from me, back to the tapestry. "Southerners have warm days, rich lands, and politics. But the Northerners have home."

I nodded. I understood this. The man I had met all those years ago had said something extremely similar. "Without the cold, a man can't appreciate the fire in his hearth." I recited. "Without the rain, a man can't appreciate the roof above his head."

Evie nodded. "That's what father used to say to my brothers and I."

"You have brothers as well." I remembered.

"Three, Your Grace."

"Three?" I frowned. As far as I knew, she had two.

"Well… two." She corrected herself. "And one half-brother. Finn."

That was a name I hadn't heard for years. Not out loud, anyhow. Hearing Evie say it, so full of sorrow and mourning… I suppose I understood, in some small way. Baldinar was in King's Landing, with the enemy. It was never easy being so far from those you call kin. "You miss him, don't you?" Evie nodded. "I see why…" I sipped my wine, "he had a way of seeing the world. So open and full of adventure and possibility."

"You'd met him?" Evie's eyes swelled with excitement and eagerness.

"Just once. Six years ago… There was a tourney in Riverrun for the wedding of Jessamin and Florian." I thought back to the first time I saw him. Whereas the other boys were busy practicing with the sword, and preparing to joust, I came across Finn Snow with his brother Markas, getting drunk and rowdy away from their father. At least, Finn was.

When it came to the match, Finn Snow stepped into the wooden ring to practice with the sword. Gods… seeing him move around, his dark hair falling to his neck as he ducked and jumped around… That laugh he gave when he disarmed a man…

It was when a blade cut through his leather armour and grazed his skin that the other girls began to notice Finn. He stuck his longsword into the dirt and marched towards the other boy, proceeding to strike him with gloved hands, tearing off his helmet and tackling him to the floor. Of course, he was disqualified from the tourney as men pulled him off the poor Frey boy, but he was exciting. Different.

"Did you know him well? Evie asked me.

I remembered how he held me that night. The quiet little kisses on my neck as his hair fell down beside his even darker eyes. How I'd kissed the scar on his arm. How we'd struggled not to moan, or the innkeeper would have investigated.

And I remembered awakening to find he had left. His clothes were gone from the floor, and I was alone. The next time I heard anything about Finn Snow, it was the scandal. Two years later, he was exiled by his own father to Essos.

"No. Not well." I pasted on a smile. "Not as well as I would have liked to."

 **Oooh plot-twist. Yeah, I wasn't too sure about this, but I figured that it's a pretty good bit of backstory. I do believe someone called this in like the fourth chapter of** _ **aCoB**_ **, so… nice one. It's why I don't usually reply to fan theories in reviews – because sometimes you post some theories where I think "damn… is it that obvious?" like with people saying there's something off about Aeron. On the other hand, I see some other theories and have no idea where they're coming from. It's brilliant, I love the idea you guys are all theorizing…**

 **Also, just so you know, I've figured out how these stories end. I've planned out major deaths (which you won't see coming), I've planned out the betrayals, and most importantly, I've planned out who will sit on the Iron Throne at the end. It's the original idea that I had, and though I may change my mind on how we get there, who is alive at that point, and who rules the Seven Kingdoms is concrete.**

 **So… enjoy wondering who that'll be. The next chapter will be up in several hours (just to give time to everyone to read this chapter). Also, check out chapter 9 – I noticed a lot of people haven't actually read that one…**

 **Please leave a review! The next chapter is back in Braavos, and is named '** _ **The Black Wolf**_ **'.**


	12. The Black Wolf

**Back in Essos! This chapter is pretty… well, it's not really like anything else I've written in this series before, so enjoy. It's a breath of fresh air and pretty Game of Thrones-ish.**

 **Baldinar Baratheon – The Purple Harbour, Braavos**

Braavos… I'd never had much love for this place.

It was didn't make sense. They may have told themselves they didn't serve kings, but they had a Sealord. They had the Iron Bank. They had nobility and they had poverty. They praised courtesans and curtpurses were artists. Oroville Tyrell was an easy target for them – walking with a gilded cane and finery. The old fool.

I grabbed the wrist of a small girl, pulling her close to me. "You know who you steal from?" I asked her, not trying to threaten her. She tried to reply in bastard Valyrian, trying to wrest her wrist away from me. "I do not like thieves." I informed her I grabbed her other hand, keeping her in place and locking eyes with her. "Do you understand me?" She nodded. "You best get back to the gutters, little rat, before I eat you up." The girl let out a yelp as I released her, watching her dash down through the crowds. I turned back to Oroville Tyrell.

"Well handled, Ser!" Oroville applauded me, limping along on his cane. "I dare say she deserved a damned good hiding as well!"

"I'd sooner turn my attention to you, My Lord." I reasoned, eyes watching for any other thieves that may have lurked nearby.

"That won't be necessary, Ser Baldinar." Oroville assured me as we neared the Iron Bank. "I am positive I will be protected well enough here. Return one hour hence, and we shall find our accommodation."

"Very good, My Lord." I bowed my head, turning around and looking at the bustling crowds of men in a sea of colourful garb.

I waited until Oroville had gone inside the bank before turning my direction elsewhere. I quickly made my way to a nearby tavern, named _The Night's Owl_. It was different to anything I had ever seen, with Braavosi songs and wenches swanning around. Men held thin rapiers at their hips, and no-one wore armour or leather.

I came to the bar, offering a few crowns to use a quill and parchment. I walked to a table nearby and sat down, ordering a cup of wine as I began writing.

 _Lord Ryleigh Baratheon,_

 _I cannot tell you who I am, in case this letter is discovered by the Usurper King. Trust in knowing that I am a friend._

 _I plan to contract the Golden Company to travel to Storm's End, so we may march on King's Landing. I have heard of your impending marriage to Evalyn Stark before your father died. They will be remarkable allies, should they settle their wars._

 _Your sister, Haylise, is close in my heart, as are you. We shall reclaim the throne from Aeron the Pretender, and avenge your father._

 _A friend._

I grabbed the wrist of a vagrant boy that was being hauled out for begging by the tavern owner.

"Boy. Have you eaten?" The boy shook his head. "Do you know which ships in the Purple Harbour go to Westeros?" The boy nodded. I held up the letter. "If you find a man going to the Stormlands, tell him he will be handsomely rewarded for delivering this letter to Storm's End. Come back here, and I will give you a meal, pay for a room and give you some silver." The boy reached for the letter, but I refused to relinquish it. "Tell no-one. Don't look. I'll know." The boy nodded, and I let go, confident he had enough of an incentive.

As the boy left, the Tyrell guards entered the inn, sitting down beside me and ordering wine.

 **Finn Snow – The Night's Owl, Braavos**

I walked through the streets of Braavos with Mikko, moving out of the way as a small vagrant boy sprinted past us. We laughed at the image of him running.

"Run faster, little dipper!" I called after him.

We came to the tavern, _The Night's Owl_ , and opened the door, walking inside. I glanced around, examining the patrons. It was near the Iron Bank, and I remembered from my time that the keyholders of the Iron Bank frequented the establishment for its finery. I finally clapped eyes on two men in grey robes, conferring over a cup of wine. I grinned to myself – only keyholders wore those grey robes.

"Find us a table," I told Mikko, "I'm going to have a wee chat." I winked at Mikko.

"Quiet, Snow." Mikko implored. "No blood spilled."

"Alright, alright… Gods, you're dull." I slapped him on the shoulder and walked over to the men, clearing my throat. One was balding, his ginger hair thinning greatly despite his young age. The man beside him had no hair at all, though their freckled complexion informed me they were related. I picked up a tankard from the bar, and upon walking up to the side of them, knocked my tankard over the arm of the nearest man.

"R'hllor himself!" The younger man exclaimed in the common tongue.

"Ah, a thousand apologies!" I cried in a Braavosi accent. "A moment! You are a keyholder of the Iron Bank, are you not?"

"I am…" The younger man turned to the other cautiously.

"Ah, I knew it! Such fine men that are the fathers of Braavos! The Lord of Light must have led me to you! I have been hoping to lend my blade to the Iron Bank for some time now! Might I inquire as to where I may enlist to the Captain of the Guards?"

The older man laughed. "May I ask your name, Ser?"

"Ah!" I exclaimed again, slapping the bar loudly. "I have been remiss in my manners! Allow me to introduce myself as Adaaro Adarys," I plunged into a deep bow, pointing my toes up and leaning back, "the finest bravo in all of beautiful Braavos."

"A bravo, hm?" The younger man looked to the older.

"I do not think the Iron Bank would be suitably-"

"Pardon, Ser," I interrupted the older man, "I am no young bravo, eager to show his worth to a courtesan. My mother came to this city from Westeros, penniless and hopeless. It is only because of the Iron Bank that I am alive. I wish to sell my sword only once; to the men who gave my mother her life."

The men looked at each, beaming with pride at their noble and honourable reputation. Funny that – they were so obsessed with themselves, they didn't even stop to realize there hadn't been a case of this… ever.

"Well… Adrys was it?"

"Adarys, Ser. Adaaro Adarys."

"Well, far be it from us to turn away help from men of such distinguished ambition such as yourself." The older man smiled. "The man you are looking for goes by the name of 'Blackdog'. His residence is above the mummer's playhouse, named _The Silver Barrel_."

"A thousand blessings on you, Ser!" I dipped into a deep, theatrical bow again, which the two men horribly attempted to replicate.

"Valar Morghulis!" The younger man said, excited.

"Yes, yes, Valar Dohaeris!" I smiled, watching them exit. I waited until they had fully left before shaking my head. "What a prick…" I muttered, back in my natural accent.

 **Mikko –** _ **The Night's Owl**_ **, Braavos**

I watched Finn Snow walk back across the tavern floor. He always walked with swagger, looking around as if he wanted someone to challenge him to a brawl. He cavalierly grabbed a bottle of spiced rum off of a table of pale-faced guards, who quickly began to talk amongst themselves, pointing at him. Finn, however, paid no mind, and sat down opposite me.

"Blackdog lives above a mummer's playhouse by the name of _The Silver Barrel_. We'll take a look today, and visit him tomorrow-"

"Thief!" One of the men called from the table behind us. He was clad in steel armour, with blue cloth underneath, speaking in the common tongue. A Westerosi. Finn turned back to them.

"Next round's on me." Finn smiled, raising the bottle in cheers. He turned back to me. "We'll return to get Vollys-"

"You are impolite."

We turned around to see the tallest guard that was sitting down, clad in fine steel plate armour, with a three-headed dragon emblazoned on the chestpiece. His helmet lay on the table, revealing thick black hair and brilliantly blue eyes.

"Apologies." I nodded at them.

"Is that a Dothraki?" One of the other men sat at the table chuckled. "An actual Dothraki Screamer… I thought they had longer hair?"

I clenched my jaw, remembering when my hair was longer. The awful things I had done. The men I had murdered, their sons… I never was a Dothraki. Not really. There was already so much bad in the world, I could not add to it. I would not. But that didn't change the bad I had already done.

This must have shown on my face, since Finn's fist clenched and he turned back to the men. "I've changed my mind. You can get to fuck. I'll take your drink by way of apology."

Whereas the man who had noticed me took offence, the black-haired knight chuckled to himself. "Another Westerosi across the Narrow Sea? What's a wolf doing so far from home?"

Finn took another swig from the bottle, his eyes hardening. I'd seen this look before – he wasn't trying to contain his anger. No, Finn never did that. Finn was just thinking about how he would attack. I shook my head at him.

"Boy!" One of the other men shouted, standing up and pointing at the knight's armour. "These are the King's colours! Ser Baldinar Baratheon of the Kingsguard!"

"Baratheon?" Finn's head spun around to face him, his hand reaching to the wolfshead hilt. I kicked Finn under the table, shaking my head.

"Of the Kingsguard." The knight, Baldinar, nodded.

"Which King is that?" Finn turned his chair around, "The dying one or the blind?"

"Neither!" Shouted one of the lesser knights, "Aeron sits on the throne now. Viserys murdered his brother…"

"Lucky King Aeron," Finn handed me the drink, "having a bunch of dullards like you fighting his battles."

"Do not insult me, boy." Baldinar said quietly. "Greater men than yourself have tried."

"There are no greater men than me." Finn locked eyes with the man. "Go back to Westeros, lapdog. We don't recognize the likes of Kings here."

"Lapdog?" Baldinar raised an eyebrow.

"You insult our King!" One of the men shouted.

"Your King, not mine." Finn sneered. The two men stood up, drawing the swords as the knight, Baldinar, remained sitting. Finn stayed in his seat as I moved my hand to the hilt of my arakh, hoping that this, too, would not end in bloodshed.

"Snow…" I cautioned him. Baldinar turned to face him, standing up and walking towards us.

"Snow? A bastard boy from the North? That sounds familiar…"

"You shut your fucking gob, or I'll fill it with steel, you hear me!" Finn snarled at him.

"Who was it then? A drunkard for a father? Or a whore for a mother?" Baldinar rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.

I knew men like this Baldinar before I was exiled from the Khalasar. They sought out challenges to prove their strength. They fought for glory and power. But Finn Snow was different. There was a beast inside him that he unleashed without a thought.

As Baldinar reached to draw his longsword, Finn grabbed the hilt of his knife and tossed it through the air, where it penetrated the knight's throat, imbedding the blade into his spine.

"Ser!" One of the men shouted, rushing towards Finn with his sword drawn.

"Snow!" I called. Finn rolled out of the way as I flipped the table forwards, sending the man back a few paces.

Finn leant backwards from a swipe, falling over a table. I rushed to help him, but was obstructed by the other guard, who wielded a longsword. I drew my arakh and began to keep him at bay.

Finn had kicked the table into the man and got to his feet. At this point, Finn reached out to grab a metal tankard and hurled it across the tavern, and into the helm of the man fighting me. I took this opportunity to swipe, cutting across his helm and denting it.

I looked back to Finn, who held a bronze serving tray as a shield, pressing the greatsword away from his face. "Snow!" I shouted, tossing him my arakh. He pushed the man back, catching my arakh and yelling as he advanced on the man. I turned back to my foe, drawing my knives from my belt. "You do not have to fight-"

I was cut off as the man lunged at me, scathing my leather chestpiece. I blocked a blow and dug a knife into the man's side, tossing him across the tavern. I looked back to see Finn elbow his adversary in the face before spinning around and thrusting the man through the side of his torso.

As my enemy got to his feet, Finn jumped across a table, burying my arakh deep into the man's neck.

We took a moment to catch our breath, as Finn got to his feet, yanking the blade from the body and leaning on it. He turned to me, wiping the blood from his face, and handing me the arakh. "Cheers."

I nodded in response, as Finn moved to take back his knife. "Baratheon?"

"They're as bad as the Starks." Finn grunted as he wrestled the knife. "Fuck, I really got him, eh?"

"You killed a man for his name?"

"It's more about his sister's name, actually. And he was quite rude about my mother…" Finn put a hand on the corpse as he jerked the knife. "Besides, I've killed men for less- ah!" He pulled the knife out, and the severed head rolled away. Finn moved around to wipe his knife down on the man's garb. He then cut a small purse from the man's belt.

"We are not thieves, Snow."

"It's not thievery. It's more… looting." Finn tried to justify himself, tying the purse to his own belt. He looked up, seeing the splintered tables, blood caking the floor, and absolute shock on the faces of the patrons. He began to re-tie his hair back into a bun and turned to the tavern owner, taking out several silver coins. "No hard feelings, eh?"

 **Yup. That's another Baratheon dead. I know it was quite short-lived, but that's the point – like Woody Allen said, 'If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans."**

 **The next chapter is named '** _ **Boltons and Bastards**_ **'.**


	13. Boltons and Bastards

**Hey guys! So, let me just start off by saying wow… you guys have been crushing it with reviews! Like, 101 already? That's insane! Thank you all so so so much!**

 **Secondly… Baldinar Baratheon's death really messed with you guys didn't it? I know that I didn't introduce him enough, and it was the start of his story arc but… well, this instalment is called '** _ **A Realm of Ashes**_ **'. No character is safe – like Martin, some characters die randomly. It happens, it sucks, but sometimes a character's death does more for the story than you think. Just… trust me – it's not done just for shock factor.**

 **So, from a narrative standpoint, yes, it would've been more interesting to keep him alive, but life's crazy. What's the quote? 'If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.'**

 **Now, a couple of characters that could be fun – I've had lords, ladies, knights and handmaidens, but I'd also like some squires!**

 **Now, a page is between 6-12. A Squire is between 13-18. This is a rough guide, and yes, there are exceptions.**

 **Theadosia Bolton – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

King's Landing. Gods, the people here were weak. All the women wore their hair in intricate and flamboyant designs, draped in gold and silver with jewels embroidered into their dresses. The Southern kingdoms were soft. Fertile land, warm afternoons… what did they know of struggle? Only Northerners could live in the North. Even the Starks, foolhardy as they are, were stronger than our Southern counterparts.

The Red Keep was daunting. A palace, built by dragons, that reached to the skies above. I'd never seen anything of the like. True, the Southerners were weak, but I had never even dreamed of a palace this big…

I was shown into the Throne Room by Targaryen guards – who wore large scaled steel and simple, undecorated helmets. It seemed that they were one of the few Southern Houses that did not need to fashion ornate armour for it's soldiers. Then again, the Targaryens had a palace, a throne, and a crown. Everyone knew who they were. Why would one need reminding?

The court was long and wide, with dragon skulls lining the walls. At the end, sat the Iron Throne. Twisted metal, ugly and crudely formed. The sharp edges of the blades protruding out of it so wrathfully and painfully. How much satisfaction would I get from placing someone's head on the edge? It was still said to be sharp, if you believed the tales, but I could imagine the blood seeping from a skull, and dripping down the throne, falling between the blades.

And on the throne, sat an interesting character. I had heard of the succession from Rhaegon to Aeron, but in truth, I hadn't ever paid much attention to the South. And here I saw him – the Bastard, Aeron Stone, now King Aeron Targaryen. His silver hair was pushed back from his face, under the golden crown. Those tell-tale violet eyes, that most with Valyrian blood possessed, roved up and down my body. He wore a dark jerkin, fastened with rubies, over a silk scarlet shirt. Both hands rested on the Valyrian longsword he clutched between his legs. A dark blade, with a darker hilt, and a large, blood-soaked gem sat in the pommel.

"May I present to the Court, Lady Theadosia of House Bolton of the Dreadfort in the North." The guard stated, bowing his head to Aeron before taking a step backwards. I bowed my head, and plunged into a deep bow.

"I do hope you had a pleasurable journey, My Lady." Aeron rested his head on his hand.

"As pleasurable as possible, Your Grace." I slipped into my delicate and courteous tone. Gods, it was dull speaking like this. "I am afraid that I find the weather a tad too warm."

Chuckles spread through the Throne Room, and Aeron smiled. "Alas, I fear that is your temperament. Now, My Lady," Aeron leaned forwards, "I've been informed you wish to discuss an alliance. Now, I was also led to believe that the North wish to resolve it's… disputes internally."

"Yes, Your Grace. My father has bid me travel to you to swear fealty, so we may serve as Wardens of the North once the War in the North is won."

Aeron let out a laugh as the court murmured. "You have no claim."

"Neither did you, Your Grace." I let out a slight smile at the sight of Aeron's smile dissipating. "Back before you were legitimized, of course. Fortune is, it seems, a fickle ally."

Aeron sat there, one hand wrapped around the hilt of his blade, Blackfyre, as the other grazed a charred hilt in the arm of the throne. Eventually, Aeron nodded at a member of his fabled Kindsguard, a brute-ish giant with red hair falling under his steel helm. They began to move everyone out of the throne room, including the older man who stood beside Aeron, golden hair swept backwards and emerald eyes glazed over as he was ushered out by the ginger brute. Eventually, only Aeron and I remained.

 **Aeron Targaryen – the Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

Lady Theadosia Bolton. I have to say, I hadn't paid much mind to the Boltons. All I had ever learnt was that they were descended from the Red Kings, served the Starks, and know rebelled against them. Apart from their grotesque tradition of flaying, there was little else about them that was interesting.

And yet, here stood a beauty. I had often heard talk of Northern beauties, with their pale skin and dark hair, but this woman was a visage. Her dark hair was smooth and silken, winding down to the dark bodice over her grey chemise. Not like Delyth's beauty, grand and perfumed. No, Theadosia was more… subtle. More natural. And those flint-grey eyes, with just enough blue to resemble icebergs… so large they didn't belong on her face.

"Let us talk simply, My Lady," I sheathed Blackfyre and descended from my throne, "what started this War in the North? I believe there was some mention of rape or kidnapping or some such other?"

"Lord Bennard Stark stole my aunt Maryana and fathered a bastard with her."

I paused on one of the steps for a moment before clearing my throat. "And?"

"She died in Winterfell and the boy was raised there."

"Where is this boy now?"

"Essos. Exiled by his father."

"Exiled?" I chortled. "Whatever for?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" I couldn't help but smile at this. I could tell it was difficult for her to say this. "But, Bennard Stark is dead, if I've heard correctly."

"His true-born son, Markas, leads House Stark now." Lady Theadosia took a step towards me, hands gently reaching on each other as she approached, hips swaying under her tight cotton gown. "The matter is a personal one… and we would not ask such a King to fight our battles. We would simply entreat for your support once the war is done."

"And why should I agree?" I gripped my hands behind my waist. "The North means nothing to me."

"The North is the biggest kingdom in Westeros. Bigger than the other six combined. It's people will never follow a Southerner… not truly. Only one of their own. Similar to how the people would never follow a kinslayer."

My hand drifted towards the hilt of Blackfyre and tightened around it. Who was this woman? I felt my mind start to panic. She couldn't have known. No, the Kingsguard wouldn't have told her. It was just the rumours – it had to have been.

"We have a pact with the Greyjoys, Your Grace." Theadosia continued, "My brother is to wed Lyra of House Lannister. By supporting our House in the North, you have all kingdoms of Westeros supporting you… save one."

"Dorne will fall in time, I can promise you this-"

"With respect, Your Grace, I was not talking about Dorne." Thea's eyes gleamed. She knew she had information I wanted. What would she do now? Barter with me? A week in the black cells would teach her otherwise… "Markas Stark has betrothed his sister to Ryleigh of House Baratheon."

"Baratheon?"

"The Stormlands will wage war on the Reach. Your treacherous brother and sister will attack the Lannisters. And the Starks will march down to King's Landing and sack the city. Of course, that is, unless my family prevails."

"Therefore our interests are aligned…" I finished the thought for her. "I suppose you'll want Lyra Lannister to return to the Dreadfort with you?"

"It's hard to have a wedding without a bride, is it not?" Thea gave a coy smile. There was something about those lips… like she knew how the world would end, and refused to tell anyone.

"You have a shrewd mind, My Lady."

"Perhaps it could match a King's." Her light eyes locked onto my own.

I nodded, turning to walk away from her. "Very well. Lyra Lannister may be taken to the Dreadfort. After all, she is my Hand's daughter…" Before sitting down, I had to look back at her. "You're of a wedding age, are you not?"

This caught her off-guard. It disarmed her. "Yes, Your Grace?" Her voice wasn't as light or thin. No, it was less confident… more defensive.

"I did once believe that the best way to bring the Northern Kingdom into the fold was through marriage." I examined her face, those vast eyes that narrowed and began to calculate my thoughts.

"That does make sense…" Her voice became lighter again as she smiled at this.

"Alas, I am promised to another. A pity…" I sighed, sitting on my throne once more. "But, all men must keep their word. Kings most of all."

"Though," Theadosia approached my throne, "your ancestor, Aegon, had two wives, I believe?" Theadosia leant down across the throne, her small, spindly fingers caressing my jaw as she slipped it down across my jerkin. "And you are no mortal man," Her hand began to slip inside my breeches, "you are my King. You are a Dragon."

I gripped her wrist, keeping it from slipping into my breeches. My other hand held the side of her neck. I couldn't help but grin – she could have tempted me, if I was a lesser man. "And you are far too clever for your own good." I whispered. Theadosia looked down at my lips before chuckling and straightening up fully.

"Not as clever as I thought, it seems."

I bit my lip as I imagined her. What a mind… Gods, such a mind from such a woman; A Northern woman at that. It was a rare mind. I recognized it well.

"Your talents are wasted in the North." I stated. "I'd call myself fortunate if you stayed here for a while."

"A while?" Lady Theadosia turned her head to the side.

"Indeed. Lyra Lannister will be sent North with a battalion of the Royal Army. A token of goodwill. But, you should stay."

"I won't."

"I'm sorry."

"If you wish for me to stay, Your Grace," Theadosia leant on the arm of my throne, "you must tell me _you_ want me to."

"I could just order you to."

Her lips pulled up, revealing a stunning white set of teeth. "And where would be the fun in that?"

 **Delyth Tyrell – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

As Lord Lucian Lannister led mother and I into the Throne Room, I was surprised to see that Aeron was not alone. No, instead, a woman stood closely to him. She was older than me, and it showed in her body. Her hair was dark, her skin was pale. Large silvery-blue eyes and a body like an hourglass.

"My Dragon?" I looked at Aeron, who rose from his throne and walked down towards me. Gods, he was handsome. A true Targaryen, with brilliantly vibrant eyes that seemed to shine a little brighter whenever he looked at me. Like the sun was rising from behind the clouds.

"My Rose." He kissed me chastely on the cheek as he turned towards mother and Lord Lucian. "My Lady. Lord Hand."

"Your Grace." Mother curtsied.

"My King." Lord Lucian held his breast and bowed deeply.

"Lord Hand, I wish you to find Lady Theadosia Bolton her chambers."

"My Lord?"

"She's our guest for the foreseeable future."

"Our guest?" I asked, looking at her. She was… beautiful. A beautiful bitch. The way her eyes studied Aeron… it was dangerous. But she was not dangerous. No, no-one would touch my Dragon. If she tried to lay one of her grubby Northern fingers on him, she'd learn that the Rose had thorns.

"Before she returns to the North, my love." Aeron ran a finger across my cheek. I felt my cheeks flush at his touch. Aeron knew what was best.

"Your Grace," Mother interrupted, "I wondered if you had come to a decision about my daughter…"

"Ashriel, you mean?" Aeron turned to mother. I felt my stomach tie itself into a knot at the mention of Ashriel's name. I hadn't seen my sister in weeks… but what could Aeron do? She had helped the kinslaying, treasonous Viserys and his harlot wife, Haylise, escape. She was a traitor… but she was still my sister. I suppose that was why Aeron had not killed her yet. He was filled with such goodness… "I've stayed the headsman's axe, as I promised you. But, I wish to be sure of her loyalty to me."

"But…" Mother shook her head and cleared her throat, "Forgive me, Your Grace. I am much thankful for your mercy."

"With my own brother and sister turned against me, I can empathise with your pain, My Lady." Aeron bowed his head. "Now, if you must excuse me, I must attend to my sister."

 **Laena Targaryen – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

Ashriel was a traitor. Ashriel was a traitor, and I would not suffer the same fate. Aeron was King now. I never thought he'd be capable of this… of any of this. I sat in my room, watching the bowl of turtle soup in front of me. I couldn't forget Ashriel's face as Aeron… I didn't even want to think about it.

The door opened, and Aeron entered with his trusted dog, Ser Mikal.

"Sister."

"Your Grace." I knelt in front of him.

"I've heard some disturbing news as of late." He walked further into my room.

"Disturbing, My King?"

"Indeed… turncoats. Two of the Kingdoms stand against us. And I trust you remember what happens to traitors?" His violet eyes studied my own. My throat tightened as I turned away from him. He sighed and crouched down beside me, an arm around me. "You never liked me growing up. I understand… I never liked you. It was a reminder that my father loved another. But, our parents need not determine our relationship."

"I agree, Your Grace."

"I know I acted somewhat… hastily," Aeron searched for the word, "but I did not kill her. I did not kill you. Would you have shown such mercy?"

"I do not know, Your Grace."

"Well… of course. But, I believe you've earnt a chance to prove your loyalty. A second chance, and a last. We shall travel to Rhaenys' Hill tomorrow at noon."

"May I inquire why, My King?"

"You may…" Aeron nodded with a smile before turning and leaving the room.

 **Well… that's twice as long as I expected it to be. Well, I hope you guys enjoyed this long-awaited chapter. Again, as some of you have picked up, the throw-away lines and tiny little lines of repetition and so on are actually hints that I drop or bits of foreshadowing...**

 **But, then again, I love messing with you guys, so I also love putting in misdirects – like Baldinar's death, for instance. Or Markas almost dying. I don't know – like George R. R. Martin, I want you guys to be terrified when you hear that people are going into battle, or when they're coming face-to-face with psychopaths like Raff and Thea, Shakespearean villains like Aeron and Alvar, or anti-heroes like Finn and… well, that would be telling if I named them all.**

 **But yeah, you've picked up by now how heroes can turn into villains and vice versa. That'll be pretty prominent as time goes on…**

 **Also, I don't think I've said, but this series will be cut up into 4 parts. Though, there's so many things I want to examine, I may have to split it into 5 parts simply because the ending is so bloody massive, it may have to be one part all on it's own.**

 **But yeah… this story gets pretty damn dark… like, 'oh jeez, did that just happen'? Again 'A Realm of Ashes' is the name of this story. Anyhow, next chapter is titled '** _ **A Heart of Stone**_ **', and takes place back in Winterfell.**

 **Read, Review, and from Rougeification, have a Happy Valentines all ya filthy animals…**


	14. A Heart of Stone

**Apologies for the delay! I wanted to include the Karstarks in this chapter, but I've yet to receive them so… never mind.**

 **Also, I realized, I haven't had any wards sent in. Wards are pretty interesting, since they could also be held as hostages… Also, no Nothern girls called Freyja… I always liked the name Freyja.**

 **Regardless…**

 **Margareth Stark – Winterfell, The North**

Winterfell was my home. I'd seen it as such for some two decades now. I loved every part of it – the cold, bitter stone in winter, the half-witted stable boy, Donal and the sweet doe-eyed scullery maid, Kira. She was only sixteen now, and had always been sweet on Markas. Of course, Markas was never too good when it came to talking to girls. My sweet firstborn was so handsome, if it wasn't for his blissful unawareness of affection, he'd have a dozen bastards running about. Well, then again, he wouldn't. Markas was a good boy, a noble Stark like his father.

Well… more than his father.

I was sitting in the courtyard, enjoying the emerging spring breeze with my handmaiden and niece, Lady Freyja Cassel, when Wyla, one of the maids, entered.

"Begging your pardon m'lady. M'lady." Wyla clumsily curtsied to Freyja and me.

"What's wrong, Frejya?"

Wyla began to pick at her nails. "It's your son, Tylan… He wasn't doing no harm, m'lady. I swear by the Old-"

"Out with it, girl."

"He was in the kennels again. Playing with the hounds."

Tylan. When would he grow out of these childish ways? Ben never chastised him for this, humouring him. I suppose this ultimately did more harm than help. I handed my embroidery to Lady Freyja and stood up. "Where is he now?"

"Having a bath, m'lady. He was covered in muck something awful-"

"Have him dried off and sent to the hall." I turned to Lady Freyja. "Lady Freyja, please ask the cook to prepare something for Lord Tylan and I."

"At once, Lady Stark." Lady Freyja curtsied, before walking with grace to the kitchens. Sweet girl – she took after my brother, Gyll, in many ways. Thankfully, she didn't inherit his blustering or bluntness.

Tylan didn't hesitate to eat. There was no sullen pause or guilty frown, like Markas had when I caught him stealing the honey from the pantry. Of course, Markas had grown up so very quickly. He'd never misbehave like Tylan. And, of course, it was never Markas that masterminded these schemes. No, it was always the Bastard of Winterfell…

Tylan just sat there with a grin on his long face, stabbing at the pork with all his little might.

"Tylan," He looked up at me as I spoke, "I believe the pig already died."

"A wolf has to kill it's prey before it can eat." Tylan explained, as if the matter was obvious, before sticking his knife back into the pork.

"Tylan. Stop."

Tylan eventually placed his knife back onto the table. He picked up a piece of pork and began to chew noisily. "When is Markas coming back?"

"I don't know."

"Is Evie coming to visit?"

"Soon."

"What about Finn-"

"Tylan. I forbid you from playing with the hounds."

"But a wolf doesn't-"

"Tylan, you're not a wolf."

"But I'm a Stark-"

"Exactly." I sighed, pulling his oiled hand out of his dark hair. "Tylan, you're Lord of Winterfell. Like father was, like Markas was. While he's gone, you need to serve in his absence. You must conduct yourself as a Lord."

"So I can't play anymore?"

"No. I'm afraid not." It broke my heart to tell him this. But, as a Stark, I had to put my duty first. And so did he. His little grey eyes cast down to the pork, as he pushed the plate away.

"I'm not hungry anymore."

"You will be later."

"No, I won't." He folded his arms and looked at the burning fire with all the determination he could muster.

"Well…" I looked at the fireplace and smoothed out my dress, "Renn Woodfoot has been insisting you learn how to wield a sword."

"Is that what the Lord of Winterfell's meant to do?" Tylan scoffed. I never liked it when he scoffed… it was a habit he'd picked up off the Bastard.

"Yes. Then you could learn to be a great warrior like your father and brother." I could see Tylan's eyes begin to flicker back and forth. He wanted to be a great swordsman, but he was just as stubborn as his father. "Why don't we go and ask him now?"

Tylan shrugged his shoulders, but as I got to my feet, he followed, trudging along behind me sullenly.

Tylan held a wooden sword, rushing at Renn Woodfoot like a wolf did to a lamb. Time and time again he was beaten back, but he gave no pause for Renn to tutor him.

"He's quite spirited, My Lady." Freyja commented beside me, as we looked down on him.

"Quite so." I smiled. In that moment, he looked so much like Markas. His hair was a little lighter, his build a little leaner, but it had been so long since a boy had trained in that courtyard. "He reminds me of Markas." I informed Freyja.

"When did he first start learning, My Lady?"

"When he was five or so."

"Five? That's somewhat young, no?"

"I suppose." I kept my eyes on Tylan, who was now out of breath. Renn took this moment to show him how to grip the sword.

"Did his father insist on this?"

"No, I did."

"My Lady?" Frejya's eyes grew wide.

"Ben's… other son had already started learning. I didn't want Markas to feel he was being left behind."

Freyja nodded, looking back to Tylan with me. "Is that where he got his scar?" Freyja pointed to her eye, and I nodded. That curved little scar that sat just above his right eye… even a decade later, the scar had never fully healed.

"Lord Rolan Mormont had been training both of the boys to fight. When they were, oh… nine or so, he wanted them to use sparring swords."

"What were they using before?" Lady Freyja frowned.

"A sparring sword is a blunted blade, Lady Freyja." I informed her. "Markas was struck above the eye and slipped into a slumber. After a day, he still did not awaken, and slipped into a fever. The Maester said that he would surely survive when he awoke… but he would not awake for days." I looked back to Tylan, who was given a wooden shield, which pulled his small arm down to the floor.

"I never heard of this, My Lady…"

"No, well… Ben was sure he would survive. I tried to make time, but Evie was only four… and Tylan had just been born. I had to take care of them but… I still wanted to make time for Markas. Yet, every night I went there, there was another there."

I could see him now, asleep next to Markas, holding _The Histories of the Kings of Winter_. His dark hair covered in sweat, that awful stench from refusing to leave Markas to bathe. He loved him. I know he did, but that wasn't enough for me.

"Lord Stark loved all his children." Lady Freyja began to nod. "It's hardly a surprise-"

"It was Finn Snow." I informed her. "Day and night, he stayed by Markas' side."

Since I had arrived at Winterfell, seeing that squalling child in Ben's arms… that wretched babe… I'd hated him. An appalling idea, but I did. Every night, I thought about smothering him in his sleep. I'd imagine how easy it would be. I'd watch him sleep next to Markas, and I hated how much he looked like Ben. Ben's hair, Ben's eyes… Gods, if it wasn't for those eyes… He'd awoken one night, and just stared up at me with those impossibly dark eyes.

And all I could think about was how much I wanted him to die.

I'd prayed that Ben would send the boy away. To Bear Island or Karhold or anywhere else than where I raised my children. _Our_ children. Trueborn Starks. But Ben insisted that the bastard was his child, and Winterfell was his home regardless of what I wished.

But what I wished for most, was that I could love him. That I could raise him as a Stark. That I could look upon him and truly see him as my own. But when I looked down in his crib and saw his pale skin, all I could see was that whore, Maryana Bolton. I'd see a woman that Ben had loved before me.

Perhaps the Gods took pity, or perhaps Markas was truly strong, but Markas awoke when Finn Snow finished reading the book to him. It was the moment, the only moment, when I was truly grateful to him. Finn Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, was there for my first son.

And I knew that I was worse than any other Bolton, Wildling, Oathbreaker or honourless woman in the world. Because I wanted that little boy to die because of a mother whom he had never known.

 **Just a short little update. Well, I'll update tomorrow (hopefully) in a chapter that's back in Essos. I'm not too sure about the title… let's go with '** _ **The Dog in the Barrel**_ **'. Leave a review and let me know what you thought!**


	15. The Dog in the Barrel

**So guys… we're officially halfway through instalment – I just finalized my storyplan for this instalment…**

 **Most of you have been absolutely fantastic – we're already 2 reviews ahead of** _ **aCoB**_ **, which is absolutely fantastic, thank you all so much!**

 **Some people have criticised this show as being parallel to the show… well, I suppose it is in some ways. To be honest, it does put me down a little when people dismiss this story as being a discount GoT, but no smoke without fire, I suppose.**

 **I'm trying to make this story original, and hopefully you guys can see where I have, but I will admit there are things coming up that do happen in the show, however, I'm not doing it because 'I liked when it happened in the show' – there's a ton of reasons that I can't really say now without giving a way a few plot twists that are coming up. Rest assured that when I write up my notes about characters, chapters, inspirations and hints, I'll explain all of this. For instance, why I chose to kill Bennard Stark before the story started, why Rhaegar is barely ever shown, and why I didn't show Finn until the second instalment. These are all beause of certain reasons I have.**

 **Anyhow, onwards with '** _ **The Dog in the Barrel**_ **'.**

 **Finn Snow –** _ **The Silver Barrel**_ **, Braavos**

 _The Silver Barrel_ was a mummers playhouse, and as such, included the sort you'd expect: bards and mummers all dressed in bright fashions. The playhouse was large and bustling with custom, being recently renovated by a loan from the Iron Bank. They controlled everything… everything but us.

While the eye was drawn to the farce on-stage, I found myself looking at someone else. A small girl, noble from the looks of her, dressed in an emerald green gown, holding her mother's hand. I know I didn't want to look at this, but I couldn't stop myself. Her mother was talking to another woman in frenzied Valyrian, but still clasped her daughter's hand tightly, who was fixated on the farce on-stage, staring blankly while everyone else erupted into applause and laughter.

"Something caught your eye?" Belos walked over to me, dressed in his aqua blue shirt and wooden jerkin, with his dark hood pulled up, covering his chestnut curls and weathered skin. He handed me a small crystal glass of spiced rum, which I drank a measure of. I tried to look away, but Belos had already followed my eyes to the mother and her daughter. "Ah." He nodded, looking at his own drink, "Thinking of your own?"

"What, my sister, Evie?" I took another sip, glancing around the tavern to see whether Hilario was charming another serving girl.

"You never talked much about her," Belos stated, "not in all the years we've known each other."

"I've said plenty about Evie."

"I'm not talking about Evie Stark." Belos kicked my gently under the table, and when I turned to look at him, I saw those oak eyes staring at me. I shook my head with a shrug.

"I never knew her. She died shortly after I was born."

"A Bolton and a Stark…" Belos chuckled. "From what you've told me, that'd make a beautifully tragic song."

"You've been talking to Helesa…" I finished my dram of rum and waved for the serving girl.

"Not as much as you…" Belos winked. I couldn't stop myself from chuckling at this. "Come on, boy, you've talked about your father, your brothers, your sister… even father's wife. But never your mother."

"What's to say? I try not to think about her…"

"But when you do think about her?"

I waited while the serving girl poured another dram of rum into my glass. Belos covered his and shook his head at the girl. I paid her a coin and let her walk away.

"Truth is, I don't know what to think of her. She was a Bolton… which means I'm half a Bolton. I grew up being seen as an enemy in my own home."

"By your family?"

"No." I could still remember dragging Markas out of the keep, or finding Evie in the Maester's chambers, reading his library. Tylan used to always love me taking him to the kennels, especially when there was a new litter of pups. Or when father took me hunting with him. Lord Rolan was often there, showing me how to wield a sword. "No, just everyone else."

"Bastards…" Belos leant back in his chair, ruffling his chestnut curls. I felt my fist clench at the term. "You know, my mother and father were not married."

"No?" This came as a shock to me. Belos never talked about his past. All I had gathered was that he must have been a thief, from his knowledge of lockpicking and pickpocketing. Also, he had made a comment about travelling with mummers and being a slave but… these were all pieces of a much larger tale he never told.

"Not in the eyes of any God, anyway. But it's a natural thing." Belos put a hand around my neck, "Fuck the Boltons. And fuck the Starks. You're Finn Snow, a Bravo of Braavos." We looked up to see Hilario standing by the curtain by the side of the stage, nodding at us. Belos picked up his glass and held it up. "Are you going to sit there and be a Bastard, or are you going lead us in your scheme?"

"You support this scheme?"

Belos sighed. "I support you, Snow. As long as you don't spill blood needlessly."

I picked up my glass and clinked it against his. "No promises." We gulped down our drinks and stood up, walking over towards Hilario.

"You two were a while…" Hilario grinned, "is the fearsome Finn Snow and legendary Belos Vollys getting a tad sentimental?"

"Upset you were left out?" I clapped him on the shoulder.

"Just up there," Hilario nodded at the stairs, "that's where Blackdog is."

"Blackdog…" I scoffed, "what a dullard." I climbed the stairs with Belos and Hilario, making sure no-one would halt our entry. Hilario pointed to the door at the end, and we moved across the wooden landing. "Mikko would've been good to have here…" I whispered.

"A Dothraki Screamer in Braavos?" Belos looked at me. "That's not exactly subtle."

"Subtlety isn't my strength…" I stood in front of the door, pulling at the drawstrings of my bracer.

Hilario drew his rapier, "We're men of few virtues, eh, Finn Snow?" Hilario smirked at me.

"I prefer vice to virtue…" I took a breath, and watched Belos draw his sword.

"We only draw blood in defence." Belos ordered.

Hilario moved through the door first, alongside Belos.

There were three people in the small room, which had become a make-shift office. A bed still sat in the corner of the room, but sacks were stacked in corner opposite. A large table had been cobbled together out of crates, with a large map of Braavos that poured over the sides. A quill and ink sat on the corner, and markings and figures had been made around the Iron Bank in the Purple Harbour. In front of the map, a small purse with golden and copper coins positively poured out like grain from a sack. At the map, there were three figures.

The first was the man on the left, the younger Keyholder from _The Night's Owl_ , clad in his grey robes.

Beside him was a slightly older man with dark ebony skin. A Summer Islander, from the looks of him. He was clad in the attire of a Braavo, with a chunk of his lip missing.

On the right, was the only woman in the room. She was willowy and copper-skinned, with muddy brown hair tied back behind her head. Clad in dark and tight cotton and linens, with a hood much like Belos', she took a step back, and began to pull her hood up. It seemed, if my hunch was right, that she was the Shadowborn. However, as I entered, her eyes stayed on Belos, unlike her counterparts.

I held out my arms as I walked into the room, "Valar Morghulis! Thank you for the directions Ser," I gestured to the Keyholder, "though I am a bit late, I do admit…"

"Belos Vollys…" The woman on the right spoke, a smirk visible under her hood, "wallowing in winesinks and brothels with your protégés?" She chuckled lightly. "Hardly exalted for a man such as yourself…"

"Oh, lovely, isn't she?" I looked back to Belos.

"Good to see you again, Faera." Belos pulled down his hood.

"I remember you, Bravo…" the Keyholder narrowed his eyes, "Adrys, wasn't it?"

"Ah, yes…" I grinned, as I walked up to the map, flourishing my knife, "Adaaro Adrys, brave bravo of beautiful Braavos…" I said in my Braavosi accent before chuckling to myself, "aye, I miss that one a bit…" I slid my knife across the coins, letting some of them fall to the floor like beautiful, golden raindrops. "So, what's a thief, a guard and a keyholder all doing together in secret? Not keeping secrets from me, are you?"

The man in the middle, who I presumed to be Blackdog, opened his mouth, but the keyholder spoke first, leaning on the map.

"I'm inclined not to say…"

I stabbed my knife through his wrist and leant in close as he began to groan in pain. Blackdog and the Shadowborn went to move, but both Hilario and Belos stepped forwards, blades pointed at them.

"And I'm inclined to peel your skin off and lash you with it." I hissed, watching him squirm. Blackdog shook his head and stepped forwards.

"Enough! I'm sorry Ser, but I'm sworn to protect the Iron Bank and it's Keyholders…" He held his hands behind his back. "I am Blackdog, Captain of the Guards at the Iron Bank."

I straightened up, leaving my knife in the Keyholder's wrist. "So, Blackdog… care to tell us what we've missed?" I slapped away the Keyholder's hand from the hilt of my knife.

"We are receiving a rare artefact at the Iron Bank, which is being depisoted as repayment for a loan."

"A rare artefact…" I grinned at Belos.

"I was consulting with this woman to secure the defences against thieves."

"Well… this is a lovely little song you're singing." I picked up one of the coin, examining it carefully – it was unlike anything else I'd ever seen. A large ruby dragon was set inside the coin, speckled with amber garnets. "I've an inkling how it ends."

"You would spill our secrets?" The keyholder hissed, spit flinging from his teeth, "I'll have you whipped through the streets like a dog!"

"Fitting, given his name…" Hilario remarked, making me chuckle.

"I'll have you flogged, bravo-" the Keyholder was cut off with his own scream as I wrenched the knife out of wrist and pointed it at his face, the blade soaked with his own blood.

"Hold your tongue or lose it." I cautioned him. He looked at me, breathing heavily.

"Blackdog! Shadowborn!" He cried. "Alert the guard-"

I sliced my knife across his throat.

"Snow!" Belos shouted. In this moment, the Shadowborn flung herself through the window, and Belos sheathed his sword, jumping out after her.

I turned around to see Blackdog slam a chair into me, sending me to the floor, wheezing and gasping for air. I looked up to see Hilario dodging the brutish blows of Blackdog, his longsword crashing into the walls. Hilario slid under his arm, slicing his ankle as he rolled towards me. He grabbed my forearm and pulled me to my feet.

I fell to the wall, out of the way of Blackdog's blade, and headbutted him, pushing him back to Hilario. Hilario moved gracefully, dodging each attack, until Blackdog caught him by the throat and threw him across the room. I drew my arakh, spinning it around and using the momentum to hit Blackdog's blade. I pushed him off-balance and drew my knife.

I rolled over the map and threw the knife at Blackdog's thick neck, only for it to hit his shoulder instead. Blackdog groaned, and pulled at the hilt, heaving the blade from his body and dropping it to the floor. He lunged across the table, and Hilario began to sweep across the room behind him. I blocked Blackdog's attack, but he jumped over the table and grabbed my wrist, forcing it against the wall. I tried to push against him, but the man was a brute. My hand still gripped my arakh, which was pushed against the wall by his own blade. He bared his teeth, leaning in close. I let go of my blade, punching him in the face, but his head barely moved. I saw Hilario over his shoulder, who now held my knife.

"Snow!" Hilario called.

As Blackdog turned around to look at Hilario, I grabbed his shoulder with my free hand, and began to climb up his body until I wrapped my legs around his neck, both of my hands on his sword-arm. I leant backwards, pulling him to the floor with a sickly crack as his shoulder twisted out of his body. Hilario jumped forwards and glided across the floor on his knees as he plunged the blade into Blackdog's heart, then his gut, then his eye. I felt a the blade poke through the back of his skull, and protrude into my thigh. I groaned and released my legs, falling back and looking at my breeches. It was a small little scar – nothing too serious.

We lay there, panting, watching the blood soak through the floorboards, ink speckled across our faces. Hilario handed me back my blade.

"Thank you…" I gasped, taking it, and wiping it down on Blackdog's jerkin.

"Did I get you?" Hilario pointed at my thigh.

"A little…" I nodded, getting to my feet. I took began to tie up my hair again as we looked around the room. There was a silence as we both looked towards the open window.

"Did Belos jump out of the window?" Hilario pointed at it.

"…I think so…"

"Gods, he's mad." Hilario laughed. I couldn't stop myself laughing as we looked at the bodies. "Did you have to kill him?"

"I warned him to shut his gob." I protested.

"So you killed him?"

"He was calling for guards!"

"What guard-"

As if, on cue, a series of hooded figures walked in, twirling knives and nocking arrows as they entered the room in formation.

"Of course." Hilario nodded, stabbing my knife into crates behind us. He looked over to me. "Didn't really need to kill him then, did you?"

"Oh, shut up…" I held up hands with Hilario, looking to the window. What they didn't know was that Belos was still out there. He would surely tell Mikko, and perhaps bring his latest apprentice, Taenara, to come and save us. He wouldn't leave us here.

I knew it.

 **So, there was actually going to be no action but… I just let this naturally escalate. Also, we haven't seen much of Hilario, and I do love using him as a foil (…fencing pun). Anyhoo, it's back to the North next chapter – '** _ **The Siege of the Dreadfort'**_ **. That kinda gives away how far along we are but… oh, just you wait…**


	16. The Siege of the Dreadfort

**Hey guys! I've had a lot of time off, I know, but it's given me a lot of ideas for this story. So much so, that I may have to put in another instalment just to include it all… But, anyhow, here's a casting call:**

 **Commoners in King's Landing (Any age, any social level – I want them to be commoners. Not necessarily cutthroats or thieves – just average men AND women)**

 **I'd like another Lord at the court in King's Landing. Perhaps a Lord of the Small Council.**

 **Kingsguard knights are always nice to have.**

 **On with this chapter! I'm going to write the following one now, so… see you in a couple of hours I guess!**

 **Aeron Targaryen – Rhaenys' Hill, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

Fools! Oathbreakers! Conspiring against me, their king. Men without honour… Baratheon and Stark… traitors to the realm! I'd show them why the Dragon rules and the stag cowers under the wings and fire.

I strode across the hill, watching Daenys' violet scales flicker in the sunlight as she plunged down to land atop the hill with a screech.

"You are sure about this, My King?" Laena hurried to keep up with me. I turned around, examining her burnt face, dulled violet eyes and a high-collared dress, lined with black fur.

"Call your mount." I growled at her.

"Your Grace, you shouldn't act-" I lunged my hand at her shoulder, and would have wrapped my fingers around her seared skin, but the townsfolk watched. And in that moment, I remembered why I was doing this. I was the King, and as such, must act as a King would. I sighed to exhale my anger and took a step backwards.

"Call your mount, sister."

Laena took a breath, and in the next moment, Helyax's scarlet body soared from the clouds above, landing with a thud on the hill. He was twice the size or more of Daenys, but not even half as fast. Helyax groaned and roared at the sight of the townsfolk. Laena shushed and stroked his snout.

"What is our name, sister?"

"Targaryen." Laena croaked.

"Are we lambs? Are we dogs?"

"No, Your Grace." Laena swallowed.

I placed my hand on her shoulder once more - gently this time - my violet eyes staring into hers. "The Dragon does not consort with the stag, nor does he deal with the wolves. The Dragon feeds on both alike." I walked away from her, climbing onto Daenys and fastening myself to the saddle. I kept my eyes on Laena, who did the same on Helyax. "Return at nightfall. Do this for our family, sister. For our kingdom."

I didn't need to say anymore than this, for she already knew: if she disobeyed me, I would not spare her life again.

 **Markas Stark – The Dreadfort, The North**

The Dreadfort had truly earned it's name. A large keep that grew out of the hard earth below, moulded to the contours of the hills and rocks. Dark stones stacked on top of each other, with banners of the flayed man flapping gently in the breeze.

We had just broken camp, and my armies nearly entirely surrounded the Dreadfort, with Rolan Mormont serving as siege commander, much to the chagrin of Redbeard Cedric. I couldn't trust him to follow my orders – the Redbeard loved battle, and would doubtlessly attack the Dreadfort with the full might of our army.

But thousands of men didn't need to die. I'd sooner spend another month or so away from home and save the lives of my men and Alvar's.

I walked through my camp, watching the soldiers play dice and cards. I'd never really been good at the games – Finn had tried to teach me when we were younger, but I didn't have the head for it. I suppose, looking back now, I didn't have the temperament either.

Other men were wrestling and singing bawdy songs. I grinned at the memory – I knew one of the men, Lord Collyn Ryswell, with his firstborn, Corbyn, only sixteen years old.

As I walked on, a very old, very short man who had been carrying a bundle of firewood dropped it all upon the floor. I stopped, and started to pick up the firewood for him.

"Many thanks, Ser-" He looked up at me and suddenly bowed his head and dipped down onto one knee. "Beggin' your pardon, m'lord, I did'nae see-"

"Calm yourself, man," I grabbed his arm and helped him rise, picking up his firewood, "this isn't the South. You don't need to kneel unless you're swearing an oath." I couldn't help but smile warmly at the old man. He was dressed in ill-fitting chainmail and a brigandine, and was far too old to fight. "What's your name?"

"Kol, m'lord."

"Where are you from? I don't recognize you."

"Ah, m'lord, you wouldn't know my village. S'a little hamlet by t'Bite, south of Greywater Watch."

"You're a crannogman?" I asked, examining him. It explained his small stature, as many of the crannogmen were all small, not to mention, strange.

"Aye, m'lord."

"I'll carry the wood for you, Kol. You've no place fighting in the war." I scooped up all the firewood in my arms and walked alongside him.

"Ah, no m'lord, I do not. It's all for young men, but m'lord Reed asked for men and I've not got much longer in t'world." He let out a cough and pounded his chest, "No, I do'nae m'lord, not long at all. And your lord father, restin' his soul, was always good to me, he was."

"You knew him?"

"Ben Stark? Fine man. Absolutely fine man. Saw me on his way dow' South, he did. Aye, paid me han'somely for food and a bed before goin' down to slay t'Ironborn. And again on his way back up."

We approached the camp of infantrymen, "Father always said that the smallfolk are just as important as nobles. We're all northmen."

"Aye, m'lord, that'd be t'same man I saw. A babe as well."

"A babe?" I frowned. "On his way back from the Ironborn?"

"Aye, m'lord. A newborn babe. Boy, with dark 'air."

I frowned. This had to have been Finn. I knew he was born on the road, but I never thought it would have been that far South. A few more miles, and he would've been born in the Riverlands. "Who else was there?"

"With Ben Stark? Let's see…" He thumbed his chin, "Mormont, m'lord Reed…"

"A woman? Dark hair, by the name of Maryana?"

"T'Bolton lass?" Kol shook his head. "No, m'lord. She were not there."

I opened my mouth to ask him to think harder. An old man, his memory must have been frail. But, another voice caught my attention. I turned around to see Lord Ichabod Cerwyn walk towards me.

"My Lord Stark, I need you to come with me at once." His voice was cut with urgency.

"Lord Cerwyn?" I asked, giving the firewood to one of his men. "What's wrong?"

"Please, My Lord?" He ushered me back to the heart of the camp. I followed him quickly, back to my large tent where we had planned the siege. As I entered, I saw Mormont, Glover, Reed and Karstark all there. Solemn eyes downcast and heavy brows. They all opened their mouths wordlessly as they tried to express something inexpressible.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Markas…" Rolan Mormont reached out a trembling hand that clutched a small ravenscroll, "My Lord…"

"What's happened?" I took the scroll from him.

"It's Winterfell." Redbeard spoke, his eyes glaring into the candle's flame as his fist clenched. "It's been burnt to the ground."

 **Oooh plot twist. Yeah, so… that kind of puts a spanner in the works. A fairly short chapter, I know, but I've been trying to go into the plot further. There's another storyline I'm putting in, since I want this story to balance between the noble lords and ladies and knights and Kings and so on as well as the smallfolk and commoners.**

 **Anyway, leave a review – let me know what you think. Feel free to send in characters I've listed before. The next chapter is named '** _ **The Black Wedding**_ **'… Dun Dun Duhhhh.**


	17. The Black Wedding

**Hey guys – a delay in updating, but I wanted to make sure I could really make this chapter a good one. It's a little longer than the last, so it should be a good read. Also, please send in those commoners in King's Landing.**

 **Anyway, onwards with '** _ **The Black Wedding**_ **'.**

 **Evie Stark – Storm's End, the Stormlands**

Haylise was kind enough to braid my hair for me and help me don my wedding dress. I wished I could wear this dress all the time. Mother had fashioned it for me back home, in Winterfell. It was a beautiful, fur-lined gown, with snowflakes stitched into the hem, and a direwolf on each shoulder. I suppose I would have to make my own gowns from now on…

I couldn't stop my mind from drifting to home. Back to mother and Tylan. I wondered whether Markas would have returned by now. Gods, I missed them all. Solemn, melancholy Markas and wild, untamed Tylan. My brothers.

Well… most of them.

I turned around to Haylise, who was combing a section of my hair. In doing so, I undid her work.

"Evie!" Haylise exclaimed, "I'll have to do it all again now!"

"Sorry, Hay- Your Grace."

"Haylise." Haylise corrected me. "We're to be sisters soon."

"Of course." I nodded. "But, do you think my family will visit? I haven't seen them in weeks…"

Haylise bit her lip and began to brush a comb through my hair once again. "Perhaps." She murmured. "One can but hope and pray."

"What about me? Can I see them?"

"Soon, maybe." Haylise started to tie my hair up, like a proper southern woman.

"How soon is soon?" I asked.

"Soon." Haylise repeated. "It's hard to know."

I felt like Tylan. Petulant and impatient. But, in realizing this, I only missed home even more. I wondered if every woman felt like this on the day of her wedding. Mother said she had known father before their wedding day, and the thought of Haylise feeling nervous seemed impossible.

 **Ryleigh Baratheon – Storm's End, The Stormlands**

I must have looked nervous. Viserys handed me a cup of wine, with a warm smile and a steadying hand. His hands were pale and strong, with veins wrapping over his bones. His platinum hair was brushed and trimmed, due to the events of today. He wore the same garb as before, only it was noticeably cleaner. At his hip, sat the thin sheath of Dark Sister.

"You're all a tremor." Viserys laughed, sitting down opposite me.

"It's my wedding day…" I looked down at the scarlet wine.

"It's only wine. It'll help steady you." Viserys reassured me, taking a drink of his own cup.

"Were you this nervous? When you married my sister?"

"I wouldn't say nervous…" Viserys let out a chuckle, "Haylise was… graceful. The match made sense."

"But, you loved her?"

Viserys stroked a slender finger along his strong, sharp jaw, "I believe that one can… learn to love. But us second sons… we do what is required of us."

"Baldinar was always better than me at this stuff…" I thought back to him. Broad-shouldered like father, strong like father, a warrior like father… "He should be Lord of Storm's End."

"I knew your brother back in King's Landing." Viserys informed me. "Quiet man… never said a lot. But he was always eager to prove himself. This," Viserys held up the letter from Baldinar, "shows that the man's no simple soldier."

"He's complex." I nodded. Baldinar had often been difficult as a child, I'd been told. Always fighting, with tooth, nail and sword. I'd never seen him lose a fight. He was knighted at seventeen by Rhaegar Targaryen, and named as a knight of the Kingsguard. I had held a sword… five times. I was just no good at it.

"He's a brave man." Viserys informed me. "The Golden Company will no doubt be of great assistance when we march on King's Landing."

"I don't know…" I rubbed my elbow, "I'm not good at fighting. And father said we have to protect the borders from the Dornish…"

"I understand, Ryleigh. But Aeron killed my brother. He killed your father. No-one will ever be safe if he-" Viserys shook his head, and stood up, holding his cup up high. "Come. This is your wedding day. I'm your brother by law, and I should not tarnish such a day with dark talk." He gently held my hand, making me raise my own cup. "I wish you nothing but good fortune."

"Thank you, Your Grace." I bowed my head and drank the wine.

As we finished our cups of wine, the door opened, and in entered the dark haired, lean boy that stood a head taller than myself. He was dressed in a simple leather doublet and bowed his head.

"Apologies m'lord. Your Grace."

"Your Grace, this is Edric," I informed Viserys, tearing myself away from Edric's brilliant green eyes.

"Good day, m'king." Edric plunged into a deep bow.

"Friend of yours?" Viserys asked me.

"Yes, Your Grace." I placed my hands behind my back, fiddling with my fingers. "He's the kennelmaster's son."

"You ever held a sword before, Edric?" Viserys walked over to him.

"No, m'lord. I work in the kennels…"

"What of it? You have a good build… I think we could carve a knight out of you." Viserys slapped Edric's shoulder and turned to me. "Well, My Lord, I believe I've neglected my wife. I'll look forward to your ceremony." Viserys bowed his head and exited the room, closing the door behind him.

I was alone with Edric. Though I'd often treasured our precious moments together, I found that I wanted nothing more than for us to be away from here. I hated Storm's End. I didn't want to marry Evie Stark, or be Warden of the Stormlands.

I just wanted to be with Edric.

"You're marrying her then?"

"I don't have any choice."

"Would you accept that, if the roles were reversed?"

I bit my lip, turning it over in my mind. If I had to see him kiss a girl and spend the rest of his life raising a family with her. "No. I wouldn't."

"Than don't ask me to accept this." Edric stepped towards me, placing a hand on my neck and pressing his lips to mine. He had a way of touching me – of holding me – that crackled my skin and made my lungs too small to hold breath.

"I don't want to marry her." I stated.

"Then don't. You are Lord of the Stormlands – send her away."

"But Haylise and Viserys – they need alliances. The North is the biggest kingdom-"

"Damn the North and damn Viserys. I am yours and you are mine. We can leave right now. Saddle a pair of mares and ride out. We could go to High Garden, or to Essos – there's a whole world out there just waiting for us."

"It's a truly wonderful fantasy…" I looked down at my feet; I desperately wished I could do this – all of it. But, I had the name Baratheon. I had to help my sister, who always made time for me when the other boys used to tease me. "But that's all it is. That's all it can ever be for us."

Edric clenched his wide jaw and gritted his teeth, before letting out a hiss and storming out of my chambers. He would not share me with Evie Stark, and I would not elope with him. I cursed the day that Evie arrived in Storm's End. For ruining my life.

 **Ayric Dondarrion – Storm's End, The Stormlands**

Little Ryleigh was now a married man. The weather had been kind to us, and not given us any of our infamous storms or torrential downpours. Because of this, everyone was in good spirits. Haylise and Viserys danced with the other small lords, such as Lord and Lady Swann, or the Dowager Lady Florent. Everyone danced and was merry. That is, everyone except Ryleigh.

Ryleigh sat at his table, resting his head boredly on his hand. To his right, sat the newly proclaimed Evalyn Baratheon, Lady of the Stormlands. In time, she'd bear Ryleigh's children, and the alliance between the North and the Stormlands would ascertain peace across Westeros once Viserys graced the throne.

The band played a favourite of Ryleigh's, _Dance of Dragons_. A lithe woman and a man who could have passed for her brother sang the song. Evalyn was intrigued, staring with focused eyes at the woman, who sang the song about the fated lovers during the Doom of Valyria.

In the distance, we heard the approach of a storm. Thunder, from the sounds of it. Viserys looked away from Haylise, into the skies.

"Viserys, My Dragon?"

Viserys moved his hands away from Haylise, and rested a hand on the hilt of Dark Sister. "Haylise, get Ryleigh and Evie…"

"It's just thunder, Viserys. We _are_ in the Stormlands-"

"That's not thunder." Viserys stated.

As the noise came closer, Viserys was proven right. It was no thunder – just a pure, deafening screech. A fast as a flash of lightning, a purple streak, engorged in fire, soared past one of the towers, which fractured and began to fall.

Everyone broke into screams as Haylise dashed towards Ryleigh and Evie. As the did so, decimations of the tower slammed onto the band that had been singing. In the distance, we saw the purple beast pause and beat it's wings over the bay.

"Aeron." Viserys growled before he grabbed my shoulder. "Where will everyone be safe?"

"I…" I couldn't form words. There was a Dragon, here to kill us all. But what a glorious beast… magic, in it's purest forms. She was as beautiful as she was terrifying…

"Damn you," Viserys hissed, screwing his eyes shut and stitching his brow together.

A heavier rumble of a growl echoed above the sky, and a larger she-beast landed on the rubble of the tower. Dark bronze scales, with golden tinges on her horns. As Viserys began to clamber onto the Dragon, I stretched out a hand to touch it's scales. They were harder than I expected – tougher than any steel or iron I had come across…

"Aeron!" Viserys bellowed as his dragon lumbered up to see his treacherous brother.

As if I had been in a haze, I suddenly came to my senses. Ryleigh and Haylise. And Evie. They were my responsibility as Maester of Storm's End.

I began to stumble through the thick blag smog, staggering into wedding goers fleeing or guards who attempted to muster a defence. I fell backwards as the smog was blown away by the wings of the beasts: Aeron's purple dragon sank it's talons into Viserys', before biting at it's wing. On the saddles of the dragons, the two men held their Valeryian steel swords, swiping at each other.

"Ryleigh!" I shouted, "Haylise!"

I covered my face from the heat as one of the dragons exhaled a pillar of fire at the other. They beat their wings and began to ascend to the skies in a spiral.

I lurched along through the ruins, until I found a figure that I recognized, clutching her leg, gown torn and tattered to her thighs. It was Evie. Her skin was caked in dust and blood, tears streamed down her face.

"Maester Ayric!" She called. "I can't get up!"

"Peace, child." I leant down, and wrapped her arm around my neck, clamping my arms around her. "Have you seen Ryleigh? Or Haylise?" I picked her up.

"No, Maester. I can't see anyone!" Another howl from above interrupted her as the Aeron's small purple dragon whipped around the largest tower, and Visery's bold, lumbering beast crashed into it, toppling it onto the battlements.

I moved towards the stables, where the horses were going mad with fear. I took the reins and pulled a white mare to the gates, putting Evie on it. "Ride for Winterfell." I instructed her. "Your family will be able to help us!"

"But I don't know-"

"Follow the Kingsroad. Call yourself my niece, Kina." I slapped the mare and watched it gallop off North. Gods, at least I'd done something. Saved one person. That person could be the salvation for our Kingdom.

I turned back to see fire entrenching the courtyard, scorching bodies and searing the hay in the stables. Coughing, I ran out of the gates, trying to breath in fresh air. Another shriek erupted from the skies above, but as I looked up, I saw why the shriek was filled with pain.

Viserys' dragon, the bronzed she-beast, plummeted from the sky, blood flaring from her neck as she desperately began to flap her wings, to no avail. And directly above her, I could distinctly make out the figure of a man, falling backwards. Both of them descended into the water below, erupting against the water.

"Viserys…" I murmured. I turned to run back to the keep, to find Ryleigh and Haylise and try to get them to follow Evie to the North. But, I heard a thudding sound behind me, followed by heavy panting. I turned around to see the smaller Dragon, snout bloodied and with only a single violet eye. The rider, who I assumed to be Aeron, panted, covered in blood, his fine garments singed and torn. He bared his teeth, and leant forwards, whispering into his purple dragon's ear.

" _Dracarys_."

 **So, many of you guessed this chapter correctly, it does revolve around the Baratheon-Stark wedding. Like Martin said, it's a dull wedding when there's no death. And… well, this wedding** _ **was**_ **bloody. There's still more twists to come. Anyhow, after adding another couple of storylines, we now have 13 more chapters for this instalment to come.**

 **So, please leave a review. Oh, and don't just slate – I've got no issue with criticism if you can back it up, but when the odd person leaves a review just saying how much they dislike this story, it's just pointless. For the last time, if you don't like it, don't read it. You're only upsetting yourself with this…**

 **The next chapter is named '** _ **The Kingsroad**_ **'.**


	18. The Wolf Hunt

**So, I know this chapter was meant to be '** _ **The Kingsroad**_ **', but I realized we haven't been to Braavos in a bit and I wanted to switch it up. This is a pretty long chapter (5 pages) and I wanted to make up for the lack of action… plus, everyone seems to like these chapters so… enjoy!**

 **Apologies for typos – it took quite a while to write this… like, two and a half hours.**

 **Also, more commoners please!**

 **Finn Snow –** _ **The Silver Barrel**_ **, Braavos**

It took me a moment to realize where I was. The bright clothes, the laughter of the crowds to the mummers on-stage. The bustling serving girls and drunken patrons. I became aware of the swelling pain on my head, and brought up a hand to rub my temples with a groan.

"Apologies," the voice opposite me said, "my associates have been known to be overzealous."

I looked up at the voice, and saw the Shadowborn sitting there. Her face was obscured, but I could make out her bronze skin and those brown eyes, nearly as dark as my own, glinting under the hood. She was sat in a very confident way, eyes examining my own, but she didn't seem relaxed: She wasn't leaning back in her chair or drinking heartily. No, she had half a cup of wine that she sipped, and not once did she smile at me.

I moved my hand down to my side, reaching for my arakh, only to find that it was not there. I still wore my belt, but it was absent of my armaments. Even my wolfshead knife.

"Where's my knife?" I growled.

"I wouldn't try anything, Snow. People are watching." She nodded across the playhouse, and I saw Hilario sitting at another table, next to two hooded men. The larger man, with a heavy beard set upon his chin, twirled a knife in his hands. _My_ knife.

"They seem a tad hairy for Hilario," I commented, looking back to the Shadowborn, "but I'm sure he's had worse."

The Shadowborn smiled, "I'm not too sure. He has proven to be somewhat popular with women."

"Him?" I scoffed. "That shows how little you know."

"To the contrary, I know quite a lot. Such as you, Finn Snow. Underneath all that sharp wit and bravado, you're still just a bastard in exile."

I rolled my eyes: This was basic goading – something Belos had taught me about. "If you're trying to get under my skin, you'll have to try harder than that…"

"I could not agree more." The Shadowborn leant forwards, "The bastard of Bennard Stark, your mother hanged herself from the rafters- that was your mother? Maryana Bolton?" My fist clenched as I began to imagine it. Truth be told, I didn't even know what my mother looked like – according to the townsfolk back in Winterfell, I looked like my father. "Formerly of the company of the Second Sons, trained by Belos Vollys and served in the Sealord of Braavos' guard. Also a known companion of the Daughter of Dusk." At the mention of Helesa, I began to think about how quick I would need to be to strike her. She had proven agile, but if she was threatening her…

The Shadowborn must have known what I was thinking, as she let out a small chuckle, "I'm not a monster, Finn Snow. Helesa Irniros is of no interest to me."

"Not that this chat isn't delightful, but I best be off-"

The Shadowborn chuckled, "I've heard of Westerosi being exiled for numerous reasons. Oathbreaking… murder, like your Westerosi friend in the Second Sons. But, never for bedding a Lady." I paused, unable to fathom this. I'd not told anyone the full reasons as to why I was sent here. How could she know? How could she possible have known?

"How do you know all this?" I couldn't raise my voice to more than a whisper.

"Information is the most valuable trade." She stated simply. "Forgive me, I'm not well versed in Westerosi customs, but your father is something of a hypocrite, no?" She crossed a leg and leant back in her chair.

"If you intend to send me to the gallows, be kind enough to give me a drink first." If I was given a crystal glass of spiced rum, a simple smash would give me something sharp to work with. A serving girl walked over to us, but the Shadowborn waved a hand, sending her away.

"I'm sure you'd just use it as a weapon." She informed me.

"I wouldn't waste the rum." I tried to protest.

"To business. You want to steal the artefact. So do I."

I actually laughed at this. What a bold-faced lie. "You? You're stopping thieves from stealing it!"

"Of course I am. I'm stopping _other_ thieves from stealing it, which means I'm the only one who can take it. I need your answer by tonight."

I began to turn this over in my mind. I didn't trust the Shadowborn, which meant she was dangerous. I'd never work with someone I didn't trust. However, she undoubtedly had information that would prove useful. I nodded, "so, what's your plan?"

"You think I'll tell you without some guarantee?"

"Fine – tell me why you're offering."

She mulled over my request with a breath, "I can't do it alone."

"What about your friends?" I jerked a thumb to the hooded men that sat beside Hilario. "I'm supposing they follow you like you're in some daffy religion?"

"They're not best suited for this. It requires a certain… boldness."

"Oh, aye? What sort of boldness?"

"You were a soldier once, Finn Snow. I'm guessing you could pretend to be one again."

"Perhaps. You mean, a guard?" I began to connect the dots. "Impersonate the guards so we can go down to the vault unhindered?"

"That's a reckless plan, Finn Snow."

"Not reckless, clever." I corrected her. "What about the vault? Which one-"

"You think I'll divulge all the secrets to you here?"

"It seems we're at a crossroads then." I leant back in my chair.

"We are?" The Shadowborn glanced around theatrically. "I don't see the mastermind of this scheme around here. Belos is not coming for you. He'll leave you in the gutters, just like he did with me."

Aside from her blatant attempt to sway my allegiance, what struck me as odd was how she assumed Belos was the mastermind. That it was _his_ ploy. "I know what you're trying to do." I remembered her name from Belos saying it when we encountered Blackdog. "Faera."

Her entire face froze – just for a second. But that was enough to let me know I had found a way to get under her skin. "Do not continue on his scheme, Finn Snow. It's been a while since Belos was the First Sword. He's too… pre-occupied now. He believes himself to be the champion of the disenfranchised. Do you really think he'll let you keep all the riches? He'll scatter it all amongst the poor and kill you if you oppose him. You do not know the truth about him."

"Oh, do tell. I'd so love to hear it."

"You don't believe me?" Faera pulled down her hood, revealing her chestnut hair chopped jagged and unevenly, with thin braids falling beside her ears. The small scars speckled her face, though the most noticeable one sat upon the bridge of her nose – it came from a sword, I was certain of it. Heavy and grotesque – not at all like the rest of her face. "Belos plucked me from the streets, like you. He taught me how to thieve as he taught you how to water dance. And he will try to kill you, just as he tried to kill me. Tell me, in all your grand experience, what do you truly know of the man? What do you know-"

"I know you're wrong." I cut her off. "I know that nothing you say or do will turn me against him."

She chuckled, "What am I wrong about?"

"This isn't Belos' scheme, it's mine." Her face was a picture – full of nothing but shock. "And Belos isn't the one who wants you dead."

We stayed sitting like that for what felt like forever. Faera's eyes studied me like a prey waits for it's hunter to make the first move. She nodded over my shoulder, and I heard footsteps – heavy footsteps, but only one pair.

I flipped the table and turned around kicking my chair into the man behind me (one of Faera's hooded associates). I looked across the playhouse to see Hilario had locked his legs around one of the men, wrestling him to the floor. He jumped back up and wrenched my wolfshead knife from one of the men. He tossed it across the playhouse, onto the floor in front of me. I picked it up and gave chase to Faera through the door.

I noticed her pulling her hood up, ducking into one of the alleyways. Her hand lingered on the corner of the building as she caught sight of me and began to sprint. I shoved a Braavosi girl pushing her cart and gave chase down the alleyway.

The long narrow alleyways were like a maze, but I was just quick enough to keep up with Faera. She knocked a stack of wooden chicken cages onto the floor, which I hopped over. Looking to see where she had gone, she approached a convoy of wagons and with one hand, propelled herself over the top of them. There was no way I could do that, but I couldn't lose her. I dropped down onto my knees and flattened my body, sliding down the street and under the wagon, scrambling back to my feet to give chase.

I looked left and right, and saw she had miraculously weaved through the crowds like a fish in water. I tried to pry apart the crowd to move past, but in seconds, she had made it to the middle of a bridge over the canal.

"For fuck's…" I hissed, and sprinted towards the stone railing, jumping up onto it and leaping across the canal to the bridge. Both my hands caught onto it, but my head hit the stone handrail, making me lose my grip. My right hand slipped, but my left clung onto the bridge. I shook my hand and grabbed the railing, groaning as I pulled myself up and follow Faera once more.

Faera had jumped onto a market stall, and flung herself upwards, grabbing onto loose stones and tiles and scaling the wall. I had no chance of doing that, so I raced up the stairs, hoping I wouldn't lose her.

Faera lunged across the stone balcony and onto the stairs below. As she began to hop over the iron railing to the ground again, I didn't stop to think. I jumped onto the balcony and soared down after her. I fell into the linen roof of the stall and collapsed it. Groaning, I pulled out one of the small wooden poles from my shoulder and looked up to see Faera running towards one of the buildings.

I shouted and shoved people out of the way, but as I got to the door, Faera kicked it open, and the edge of the door cracked into my face, sending me stumbling back into the crowds of people. I brought a hand up to my eyebrow and moved it away, seeing blood coating my fingertips. "Smug bastard…" I murmured, running in after her.

We ran through a bazaar. The scents of various spices and strange music I hadn't heard before… I didn't have time to appreciate it: I saw Faera jumping from the tops of the stalls, swinging off iron rigs of candlelight and over the top of a wooden door, locked firmly. I forced my legs to work faster and jumped forwards, shoulder first, and barged into the door. It shattered off it's hinges, and I landed hard.

I got up, rubbing my shoulder and covering my eyes from the sudden sunlight. Faera had climbed up a ladder and kicked it down onto the floor. I ran along the street as I saw Faera proceede to jump from balcony to balcony.

I cursed, seeing the balconies stretch on as far as the eye could see. And what with all the crowds of people… I couldn't follow her from down here. I looked back, to see she had snagged her breeches on the wooden railing. I ducked inside the building next to me, running up the stairs.

A fairly attractive blonde woman sat in a wooden tub, soaking her skin. " _Vaoreznuni_!" I said quickly, moving through another room, of a woman being dressed by her maid. " _Hae īlē_!" I ran to the last room, with the door to the balcony open. Faera landed on the balcony in a crouch. "Faera!" I bawled, watching her turn to face me. But, she saw me too late – I wrapped my arms around her and tackled her off the balcony and onto the wide street below.

We fell onto a wagon, and I rolled off onto the stone floor, gasping as I looked down to see a large shard of glass impaled in my side. I heaved the shard out of me with a wheeze and got to my feet to see Faera setting her shoulder back into place. She took a breath, pulled her hood back up and started running again. I tried to block out the pain of my body being broken apart and ran after her once more.

Faera came to a large cart half her size, and moved her lithe body over, her legs cartwheeling through the air as she spun over it. I went to follow, and another cart came blindly out of nowhere, slamming into my left as I spun onto the floor. I refused to stay down – Faera could kill my scheme in a heartbeat. And so, I had to still her heart forever.

I saw Faera behind an iron gate in an alleyway, which she wrenched closed, bolting it shut. She then began to run and turn left, out of sight. I cursed, pulling at the gate, but it was no good – I couldn't get past it. I looked to my own left, and saw a series of three flat-bottomed boats tied to the bridge.

There was no giving up now.

I ran forwards, jumping onto first boat, which bobbed unsteadly. "Fuck…" I moved across to the next one, almost falling off as I jumped again onto the third, which rocked unsteadily. I lunged forwards, jumping and hitting my shins on the stone bank. I let out a gasp, and as I looked up, I saw Faera staring at me. She cursed in Valyrian and I called after her, "I'm still here, sneaksby!"

Faera moved into a large stone building – one I recognized. It was the back of _the Cat's Crown_ – a brothel frequented by bards, mummers and other artists. As I followed her inside, I realized we were on the third floor. She went into one of the rooms, but kicked the door shut in my face again. I stumbled backwards once more and fell over the wooden railing, onto the floor below. A patron was there to break my fall. However, this proved to be most fortunate, as I rose up, rubbing my head, and saw Faera exit from the door in front of me. She ran right past me, towards the open balcony.

"I'm right behind you, shitheel!" I called after her. Then, she jumped over the railing and across the canal below, a hand grabbing onto the iron railing of the balcony opposite me. I pushed my body harder than I thought possible, and lunged across the canal after her, planning on grabbing her and pulling her under the water.

Instead, I soared over the balcony and threw the wooden doors, landing on the floor and hitting my head hard against the stone wall. Everything was blurred, and I didn't seem to register anything until a few moments had passed. Then I realized that a naked, buxom whore dismounting a man who started to exclaim in Valyrian. He began to pull the sheets around his waist, while the whore rolled her eyes and began to fix her hair.

" _Nyke'll addemmagon ao tolī_ ," I promised with a wave of the hand, stumbling out with a hand on the wall to keep me upright. I staggered down the stairs and back out into the daylight, the daze subsiding as I looked around the streets.

No Faera.

"Shite!" I kicked a wooden crate and put my hands on my hips, sighing. As I lulled my head down to stare at my shoes, I noticed speckles of blood. Not my own, however. I thought back to Belos' training – 'the First Sword is picked for his awareness, not his prowess.' Faera must have come through here, and if she did, she would have left a trail.

A man to my left was getting up off the floor, rubbing his shoulder. Further on down, I could see the heads of people all turning to see what was behind them. And, on the bridge over the canal, I saw a lithe woman holding her arm, steal a cloak and pull her hood back up.

She thought she'd lost me. Doubtlessly, she'd be on her way to the Iron Bank now.

I sifted through the crowd, after her. Just like Belos' would have done – I wouldn't act until I was in reach. Like father said during hunting – one must wait until they cannot miss. 'When you act in haste, you only serve to defeat yourself.'

As she continued along the other side of the canal, heading back to the Iron Bank and the Purple Harbour, I remembered the current renovations that were happening further on down the canal. Faera would surely pass through where the canal became very narrow: Heavy wooden beams and cranes, shifting stones and logs… it could help me get across and take her by surprise.

I ran up the staircases and hopped over iron railings until I was on the tiled rooftops, making sure Faera hadn't glanced across the canal and seen me yet. I waited at the construction site, standing just below the crane, and untying the line from the stone slab it had hoisted up. As Faera was directly opposite me, I ran forwards and jumped off the rooftop, swinging across the canal. And across Faera too.

The crane above creaked and groaned until I heard a snap, and plummeted forwards. I passed over Faera and landed on the wooden roof of a building, crashing through it and onto the floor, where I rolled out of the doorway and directly behind Faera.

Her eyes grew wide with shock as she stumbled backwards, discarding the cloak and starting to run once more. She jumped onto the low roof of a building and threw a gloved hand around a clothes line. However, I was close enough to her to latch my arms around her waist. The line snapped and we both swung forwards into the courtyard and fall in front of the Moon Pool.

The Moon Pool… where Belos had taught me every day to wield a rapier. At night it was populated with bravos and courtesans, but in the daytime, it was almost entirely traders.

Faera got to her feet, producing a steel knife in each hand, which she flourished like a demon's fangs. I took my own wolfshead knife from my belt, and gripped it tightly.

Faera swiped at my neck, but I ducked, grabbing her hand and knocking my head into hers. I swept my knife for her stomach, but Faera was quick and agile. She leant out of the way and kicked my ankle, laying me flat on my back. She raised her dagger and tried to plunge it in my chest. I rolled out of the way, and thrust my knife into her thigh. She let out a groan and stumbled back, a hand clutching her thigh.

I couldn't help but grin at this. I held my knife out at her, and said "I'm for you, shanker." I sliced my knife through the air, but Faera ducked underneath my arm, grabbing it and dragging me to the Moon Pool, dunking my head under the water and keeping my armed hand to the stone side.

I felt my lungs start to burst as I used my free hand to try and push myself up off the stone floor, to no avail. I opened my eyes and wanted to scream, but there was something inside of me that stopped me from doing so. I felt my arms start to tire, and my eyelids became heavy, like they were lined with lead.

I reach my free arm behind, feeling Faera's face and neck. I moved my hand further down, grabbing her shirt at the bust and pulling her forwards with all the strength I had left. She toppled into the pool, in front of me. I dragged my head out of the pool and gasped, feeling air expel and then fill my lungs. I lay on the floor for a moment, gasping until I got to my feet, seeing Faera do the same, holding her bloodied face, rinsed with water.

She stumbled forwards towards me as I hopped into the pool. She threw all her weight into one thrust, but I moved out of the way, grabbing her head and slamming it into the stone side of the pool behind me. I grabbed her hair and dragged her back into the pool, kneeling down and slicing my knife across her neck. I moved her arms away from my face as she tried to protest, watching the blood pour out of her neck and mingle with the water in scarlet clouds of smoke. Her eyes began to dull, filled with horror as I watched her hand loosen around her knife. I dropped down and sat in the pool, watching the scarlet water stain my shirt and doublet.

All the Braavosi started to scream and scurry away, calling for guards in Valyrian. I had to leave soon, and find the others. We'd steal the artefact tonight. Before another thief was hired to protect the artefact. Faera planned to move tonight… there must have been a reason for that.

 **So… who saw that coming? I know lots of you probably wanted to see more of Faera, but if I introduce a character that's just bland, I don't think any of you would care when they die. I want deaths to be important, and at the very least, grab your interest.**

 **So, leave a review, Chapter 18: '** _ **The Kingsroad**_ **' will be up tomorrow (depending on where you are in the world), and it'll be shorter than this… it's more just to show you who's where. So, as compensation, Chapter 19 will be called '** _ **Dragons & Rats'. **_


	19. The Kingsroad

**So, I've had a bit of a holiday. Truth be told, I had a bit of writer's block and couldn't really focus on writing. But, luckily, I managed to write this in a couple of hours. I know it's not especially long, but it's my first one since my little break. I'll update tonight / tomorrow morning with a pretty good chapter that includes the new storyline I was referring to.**

 **I could do with some more commoners to be honest. So far I've only received one.**

 **Lyra Lannister – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

I was wrapped up in the ruby tatters of what used to be my gown. After so long in the Black Cells, I'd nearly forgotten what my scarlet garment looked like. When did it get so covered in dirt and muck? My golden hair looked dulled and covered in grease and mire. No matter – other girls liked their dresses. I wasn't a little girl – I was a Lady of House Lannister. A lioness.

When the guards entered my cells, opening the doors and flooding torchlight in, I struggled against them. With all my strength, I tried to wrench my arms from them, but they tugged me through the corridors of the Red Keep, until I was brought to a small chamber, where I was assisted by some minor noblewomen in bathing and re-dressing. My new gown was something my father would've forced me to wear. All pretty and fucking uncomfortable. All the while, two members of the Kingsguard stood watch.

I was 'escorted' out of the Red Keep, and walked down to the courtyard, where a carriage and an assortment of guards sat aloft their steeds. I recognized the Lannister and Royal guards, but I didn't recognize the other half. Their clothes were not as thick, and positively not as fine. They were all pasty-faced, their helmets little more than buckets on their heads. It was only when I noticed the sigil of the flayed man on their chests, banners and shields that I realized what was happening.

There's only one reason the bastard Aeron would let me leave. And it's the same reason the Boltons would guard my carriage.

As I walked forwards, I saw father standing in his scarlet robes, his armour blazing in the warm spring sun. He gave me that raised eyebrow and relaxed frown. A face I was so used to – disappointment. How typical of father – even now, he was still disappointed in me.

"Lyra." He nodded his head.

"You're marrying me to the Boltons?"

He took a deep breath, "Their son, Raff, will make a good match."

"They're monsters." I snarled, looking at the nearest fucking Bolton mounted on a horse.

"You'll be safe in the North." Father informed me.

"In the midst of civil war?"

"It's safer than here." Father muttered. At the carriage, a lithe girl stepped out and clasped her hands gently. Golden brown hair, flint-grey eyes… she was a real Northern girl. I'd not had the opportunity to meet many Northerners; they usually kept to themselves, up in the icy recesses of the North. Perhaps I'd soon come to call myself a Northerner.

Any other Lady might have felt embarrassed or ashamed in my position. But not I. I trudged across the cobbled stone with my head held high. No matter what I wore, or how low my father bowed and scraped, I was a Lannister. I was a Lioness. And no-one would be able to take that away from me.

We had travelled north on the Street of Seeds, through Cobbler's square and out of the north-west gate, the Gate of Gods. It was only after we'd been out of the city for an hour that I got sick of the girl in front of me studying me intently.

"What in seven hells are you looking at?" I growled at her.

"Nothing, My Lady," she quickly pushed her eyes to the landscape.

"Speak your mind." I commanded her. "I thought Northerners were…" I struggled with how to describe them really. Stupid? Blunt? Hot-headed? "Northern." I finally settled on the word.

"My name is Alara of House Hornwood, My Lady," I noticed Alara's eyes flickering to the guards that trotted beside us, "and I serve Lady Theadosia, your betrothed's sister."

"And what of my fucking betrothed?" I crossed my arms, looking out of the window. It was only then that I realized the guards riding closely to the carriage. Typical – Aeron had probably ordered them to listen for any plans I made to escape. Or perhaps it was my father.

But Alara looked alarmed. Why did _she_ look scared?

"Lord Raff is fair and fierce, loyal and lordly. I am sure he will make you very happy." Alara recited the words as if it was a song she'd been taught. Her hoary eyes studied the constant passing of guards by the carriage. And as my own eyes followed them, she knew that I understood her.

"Hornwood, you said?" I asked.

Alara nodded, "That's right, My Lady."

"Who's that…" I murmured, thinking back to my lessons with Maester Padryc. Elrys Umber, Lord of Last Hearth, Ben Stark, Lord of Winterfell (survived by his son, Markas), Alvar Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, Rolan Mormont, Lord of Bear Island… "Jon Hornwood, isn't it? Your father, I mean."

"Jacke Hornwood, My Lady."

That didn't sound right to me – Jacke sounded more refined than the Northerners. "Really? Are you sure?"

"Yes, My Lady."

I nodded, watching the guards pass us by once more. "How long before we get there?"

"A few days, My Lady. We will be given bread and board at castles-"

"Where's your Lady?" I cut her off; she knew this, doubtlessly, because she had endured the same trip coming South with her Lady. Only, now, her lady was nowhere to be seen.

Alara blinked. "I'm sorry, My Lady?"

"Theadosia. Isn't she coming back?"

"His Grace, the King, wished for her to stay a while in King's Landing, and give him company."

"He did?" I kept my voice hushed as a guard's head turned a little towards us. "What sort of company?"

Alara's cheeks flushed red as she looked away, "I'm sorry, My Lady, I don't know what you mean…"

"I'm asking if he's going to fuck her as his whore-" Alara's hand lunged out and grabbed my wrist as she shook her head, pressing a finger to her lips with a pleading look cast across her face. She was begging for me to stay silent.

We stayed frozen like that, while Alara peered out of the carriage to glance at the guards. She eventually turned back to me, and spoke in little more than half a whisper "I imagine it was dangerous in King's Landing, but you've not escaped danger, My Lady. I'm afraid that, at the Dreadfort, you will find more foes than friends."

 **Tylan Stark – Winterfell, The North**

The smoke was the first guess. I'd just wanted to play with the dogs one last time before mother made me be Lord of Winterfell. But now, I hadn't done what she wanted – I'd gone to the kennels and let the dogs out of the cages. They were howling – they didn't like being in cages.

We went out playing on the fields. But, shadows covered the clouds, and in the distance, I saw fire and smoke cover Winterfell, with a monster flapping it's wings in the flames that stretched up to the tallest towers.

I couldn't stop crying. I wanted to run to my mother and hug her and tell her how sorry I was. I'd never do it again, I wouldn't play with the dogs. I'd be Lord of Winterfell and I'd eat all my food and I wouldn't ever upset her again. I just didn't want her to not be here anymore.

My legs hurt so much – I'd been running towards Winterfell for so long – it felt like forever. I'd go and find mother, and we could go and find Markas, then Evie and we could be a family again. Markas would know what to do – he'd slay the monster!

But as I came closer, I saw it again. A beast of a dragon that crawled across the grass towards me. The dogs around me bared their teeth and growled as the red-scaled monster roared and screeched at the dogs, showing it's long fangs. And on a saddle, sat a woman. She was smaller than the head of the dragon, with silver hair and the most expensive dress I'd ever seen. But, as the dragon leant closer, I saw her face. Rather, what was left of it. Half of her face was horrific, like something out of the stories the scullery maids used to tell me. She turned her head to the side and narrowed her pale purple eyes. The remaining half of her face was as hard as stone. The dogs barked and howled while she leant forwards and said something to her mount. Like a spell in those books the Maester talked about.

" _Dracarys_."

 **So, let me know what more you want to see. Again, a couple of more commoners would be great. The next chapter was going to be called '** _ **Dragons & Rats**_ **' but that sounds really bland. Instead, next chapter is called '** _ **The Rats of King's Landing**_ **'.**

 **Leave a review, and don't forget to follow for the latest updates!**


	20. The Rats of King

**Hi guys! Sorry for the delay in updating – I've been waiting for more commoners to be sent in, as I've only received one, but I'll make do with what I have, I guess.**

 **More commoners from King's Landing please! Only 10 chapters left of this instalment, then we're officially halfway through.**

 **Visenya Targaryen – Dragonstone, The Crownlands**

Corlys Velaryon had been the Lord of Driftmark since his parents perished from illness last year. To the uninformed, he'd be mistaken for a Targaryen: a pale complexion and platinum hair cropped short like Aeron. However, his dead yellow eyes proved otherwise – his Valeryon descent had been watered down – mixed with Westerosi blood.

I'd known Corlys since I was a child. He had visited King's Landing since he was a child. To most, however, Lord Corlys was often referred to as Ser, as he had been knighted by father around the time of my birth.

I was sitting in the Lord's chair, a stone throne carved out of the island's rock itself. Corlys was wrapped in a dark blue and black tunic, silver stripes stretching down his arms from shoulder to wrist. There was something about he way he stood – shoulders relaxed, and hand limp on the hilt of his short sword, a thumb playing with the pommel of the Velaryon seahorse. Yet, his eyes were focused, and studied everything – like he was taking in every detail with his mouth in a thin line.

"My Lord Corlys." I bowed my head.

"Visenya." Corlys smiled at me before kneeling down. "I availed myself of Driftmark once I heard the news."

"News, My Lord?"

"About Storm's End." I frowned at this, raising an eyebrow. Corlys looked around, and saw the Maester, the Master-at-Arms… everyone shared my expression. "Word has not reached you?" Corlys asked.

"Word of what?"

"Your Grace…" Valeryon licked his lip and looked around to his own Lords, "I'm not sure how to say this…"

"Arrive at the point, Corlys." I rose from the chair, my throat constricting at his mournful face. Viserys was at Storm's End.

"Your Grace… Aeron mounted his dragon and razed Storm's End."

"My Brother?"

"Lord Florent reported a dragon carcass falling into the water. And Viserys is nowhere to be found."

It's hard to explain the feeling. When there's someone in the world who is a part of you. Viserys and I had never been apart. We shared the same womb. We were the two halves of the same soul. And explaining the pain of losing them. That's something that cannot be worded. All I can describe is how I stopped feeling in that moment. I knew I was in pain, but I couldn't feel it. In that moment, I couldn't feel anything.

"Aeron's still alive, I suppose?" Velaryon nodded.

"May we have the room?"

I waved a hand, obliging him. Truth be told, in that moment, I couldn't care less about who heard us speak. I was too busy thinking about growing up with Viserys, before I was sent to Dragonstone. He'd often make remarks about the little lordlings Rylon Baratheon wanted me to wed. I believe that he had actually intended for me to wed Corlys at one point, though mother had refused this. She stated that I was too young, as the man had already reached the age of thirteen by the time I was born.

The room emptied of the smattering of Lords that had come with Corlys. I stood up, and walked to the long bright windows, watching Sunfyre woeful screeches. He was calling for his twin.

"The last time I was here," Corlys murmured aloud, "was to pay my respects for your older brother. Such a young age…"

"That's three brothers I've lost," I thought aloud, "shall we talk of the ones I knew?"

Corlys nodded, "Of course." He walked up beside me, "Viserys was a good man."

"How did he die?"

Corlys held his breath for a moment. "He mounted Moonfyre, and fought against Aeron on Daenys." I screwed my eyes closed, if only to stop the tears. Of course Viserys would do that. He was never cowardly. No doubt they'll sing songs of his bravery.

"Viserys the Bold…" I scoffed, "what a stupid name." I clenched my jaw. "He was a stupid man."

"Visenya…"

"He could've left! He could've run like he did in King's Landing."

"He wanted to protect his people."

"What difference did it make?" I shouted at him, my voice cracking like Sunfyre's broken screeches. "Aeron killed them all anyway!"

Corlys wrapped his lean arms around me, a hand cupping the back of my head, which leant against his chest, rising and falling gently. It helped to calm me, but I couldn't stop crying.

"He chose to fight. Call him stupid, but he was brave. I didn't know him as well as I would have liked to, but that much is certain." He rested his chin on top of my head. "I know this isn't what you want to hear, but there's more news."

"What else could be worse?"

Corlys sighed and took a step away from me, his face once again stone-like with stoicism. "Your Grace, Storm's End was not the only keep razed. Winterfell, too, was attacked."

"Oh, I don't care about Winterfell!" I turned away from him. "The Northerners are grubby and fight each other! How does that equate to losing my brother-"

"It was razed on the same day." Corlys informed me. "I believe that Laena was responsible."

"Laena?" I asked, completely taken aback. Of course, she was known for being hostile, and had no time for the Northerners, but to burn down a castle? That couldn't be possible.

"No doubt Aeron forced her hand…"

"She has sided with that Bastard, Aeron." I growled. "She will be devoured by Sunfyre alongside him."

"Visenya, she's your sister…"

"And she did nothing to save my brothers." I know most people should feel something when they sentence someone to die – especially when it's a sibling. But I didn't feel sadness, regret or even anger. "Bring the others in."

"Visenya…"

"Do it, Lord Velaryon." I ordered him. I wasn't used to talking like this, but like Aegon and his sister-wives, I had to change. I would not be able to win this war if I stayed a little princess. I had to be more. I had to be a Dragon.

Corlys opened the doors and my subjects flooded back in. I made my way back to my throne, standing over them all. "Your True King, Viserys Targaryen, has been murdered by Aeron the Pretender and Laena the Burned has allied herself with him. Both of them are now enemies of the Realm, and will be shown no Mercy when we take back the Seven Kingdoms."

One of them, Lord Celtigar, was the first to speak. "The King is dead!" He exclaimed, kneeling down, "Long Live the Queen!"

The phrase was parroted by the rest of the Lords in the room, who knelt alongside Celtigar. I sat down, looking at Corlys, who followed suit, his eyes unshifting from me as he repeated the phrase.

"Long live the Queen."

 **Ichabod Cerwyn – Siege Camp, The Dreadfort, The North**

"My Lord?" Rolan Mormont frowned at Markas.

"You'll play no part in the siege, My Lord." Markas rubbed his forehead. "I want you to half of yoru men, and return to Winterfell."

"You've lost your fucking mind, boy!" Redbeard shouted, slamming a hand on the table.

"We've all lost men in this war, My Lord," I protested, "we cannot abandon our efforts so you can run back to Winterfell!"

"My home has been razed. I am sending men to rebuild my home. The Seat of House Stark. And no-one will deter me."

"What about the Karstarks?" I stood up from my chair. "You didn't rush to their aid! We have lost men fighting this war that your father led us into, and now you'll lose it for your keep?"

"Tread carefully, Cerwyn." Markas rose from his chair, leaning on the war table. "I am still your Lord. You are sworn to follow me."

"Aye, and I'm doubly a fool, as I followed your father also."

"Don't you talk about my father, Cerwyn." Markas walked around the table towards me. "My mother and brother were in Winterfell. If you say a word against my family again, it'll be the last you say."

I shook my head. "If you continue with this, I'll take my men and march them home." I did not say this in haste. I would not lose more men in a war we were destined to lose. If Markas insisted on sending men back West, we would not have a chance of breaching the Dreadfort.

"You march your men home, Cerwyn, and I'll follow you once I'm done with the Boltons. And I will hang you as an Oathbreaker."

I scoffed. "Finally, the pup has grown teeth. Too late I fear." I shook my head and exited the tent. Damned Markas Stark. He'd lead us all to ruin. I'd not follow another Stark into death. For if he was set on killing us all, he could do so without my army.

 **Julian – Street of Steel, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

On the Street of Steel, there were many different armourers you could go to. You could find ornate helms with elegant plumage, or sapphire-coloured shields. You could find fine longswords and carefully crafted arrowheads anywhere, but Uncle Riler's forge was the best.

I'd worked there for seven long years. Unlike most other armourers, we didn't bother with ornate designs. No, we made simple, strong armour. Our forge wasn't as pleasant as the others; the furance was surrounded by iron and steel, and we clanged away while our patrons shouted over the steel for prices.

Uncle Riler bid farewell to the guards of the City Watch before walking over to me. "Have you seen Roto today?"

Of course, I knew exactly where Roto was; My cousin was a handful of years younger than me, and while I welcomed Riler's tutelage and criticisms, Roto was filled with dreams of being a great warrior. As Riler said, Roto's head was stuck in the clouds. He was often trying to learn to use a sword behind the forge, or busy gallivanting around Gin Alley with his friends.

"Not today, Uncle."

Riler groaned and then looked down at my blade. "Let me see."

I finished wiping it down and handed it to him, letting him examine the balance. He didn't see anything, just closed one eye and looked down along the blade, brushing a hand over it. "Made the hilt?"

I hastily turned around, grabbing the hilt I'd fashioned last night. A simple round brass pommel, wrought iron handle with an iron crossguard.

"Who's it for?"

"Ser Lorkin."

He scoffed, looking down at the blade. "You think this is fit for Ser Lorkin? The man's an anointed knight!" He shoved the blade and hilt back to me. "Do it again. And this time, make sure you aren't drunk!" He shook his head and pulled off his apron. "I'll be back in an hour. Mind the shop and make a fucking sword this time!" He then stormed off, counting the coins in his purse and muttering darkly to himself.

I shook my head, shoving the blade onto the pile of others. Uncle Riler often gave good criticism, though it was times like these that it infuriated me – there was no advice given. He didn't even say what I did wrong, just that it was bad…

In sauntered my cousin, Roto. He looked similar to me, with brown hair and warmer brown eyes, but he wasn't as broad-shouldered as I was. He had a thin, pointed face, looking more like the type suited to scurrying around Fleabottom. "You just missed your father." I informed him.

"That was the point," Roto chuckled, grabbing his uncle's apron and pulling it over his head.

"How was Lysaline?" I raised an eyebrow. Roto's lovestruck eyes danced around the room.

"Gods… she's a beauty!"

"As long as she's worth the hiding Riler'll give you."

"Her tits alone are worth two of the hidings!" Roto laughed. "One for each of 'em!"

I shook my head, but couldn't help crack a smile. Roto had such an energy about him that brightened the day. He picked up the blade Riler had put down and held it up in the light. "You make this one?"

"Just finished."

"Seven hells…" Roto held it in both hands, swinging it and trying to mimic a knight's pose.

"Careful, you'll cut yourself if you carry on like that!"

"It's a fucking work of art!"

"You should tell Riler that…" I murmured, taking the sword from him and putting it down.

"Oh, Riler's never happy with anything…" Roto rolled his eyes and picked up one of the many other swords and sat down at the grindstone. He was good at his work, but he didn't put in any care. Not like I did. I insisted on using my hands and a rock to sharpen the edge of the blade. It took longer, and Uncle Riler complained how I was wasting time, but it was worth the price people paid. "What've I missed?"

"Nothing much. Riler's just headed out."

"To the brothel, no doubt."

"Maybe he'll see Lysaline."

"Oi!" Roto pointed the sword at me with a smirk before turning back to the grindstone. "Anyway, when was the last time you had a girl? Or a finger of gin?"

"Those will come," I stated.

"Oh, those will come, those will come…" Roto rolled his eyes again, "What, you waiting for some perfumed ponce to come in and make you his castle blacksmith?" I couldn't help but laugh at Roto's silly voice. "Look, come out tonight. Me and the boys are going back to Pigrun Alley-"

"I'm not going back there."

Roto paused for a moment. "Oh… right." He stayed quiet. I continued to hammer the steel sword harder, thinking about my mother, and Brynden… the traitor. "You seen them?"

"Not since I left."

We both stayed silent for a while, nothing was heard except the shouting of crowds, the songs of steel…

Roto eventually paused. "You heard about Storm's End?"

"What about it?"

"Aeron the Pretender razed the keep to the ground. Apparently Viserys is dead."

"Only a matter of time." I shrugged. Gods… imagine all that dragonfire. I'd always dreamed of forging a sword in dragonfire…

"Do you reckon if he died, the war would stop?"

I stopped hammering steel, turning back to Roto. He had that face on – when he was focusing intently on something, trying to look like it was a throwaway comment. But he was trying too hard. "Why?"

Roto tapped his finger against the blade, looking around to see if anyone was nearby. "Me and the boys were talking to this man. He says that… if we were to…"

I strode over to him, picking him up by the scruff of his neck and pulling him away from the grindstone. "Roto, don't be a dullard."

"What are you-"

"Viserys had a dragon, and it didn't save him from Aeron."

"I'm not going to-"

"Promise me, Roto. Swear you'll stay out of whatever your friends are doing."

Roto began to chew his tongue. "Look, it's not like that…"

"I don't care what it's like…" I turned around to see a pair of guards from the City Watch walk into the shop, and immediately stopped talking. I slapped the back of Roto's head. "The furnace needs tending to. Get on." I turned to serve the City Watch guards, though I couldn't help but keep on looking at Roto. He was never well-behaved, but he was the closest thing I had to a brother. I had to look out for him. But he was his own worst enemy.

And I didn't know if I could save him from himself.

 **So, there was the latest chapter (a little late, I know). Please leave a review letting me know what you thought, and don't forget to follow for updates. The next chapter is a bit of a big one. It's simply called '** _ **The Iron Heist**_ **'. Kind of gives away what happens but… there's a bit of a plot twist coming, that some of you have probably picked up on. Anyhoo… I'll try and write a bit of it today, but it'll be up tomorrow!**

 _ **R.**_


	21. The Iron Heist

**First off, thank you for all the support everyone has given me – it means a hell of a lot! This story has got so many reviews, it's crazy! For the next instalment, I'll need more characters, but I won't put out a casting call yet, since I don't want to give away what the storyline will entail.**

 **Finn Snow – The Iron Bank of Braavos, Braavos**

The Iron Bank… God it was a sight. A huge, looming fortress, built to withstand Dothraki hordes and legions of the Unsullied. It was said that only a fool wished to steal from the Iron Bank. It single-handedly supported the Free Cities of Essos as well as Westeros. The sun was just starting to rise, and in the pale blue light of morn, I could feel my entire body trembling with anticipation. After today, we would live like kings.

Perhaps Helesa and I would travel to Pentos, buy a deal of land, with a palace to match Winterfell. Maybe we'd even marry, if she retired from her trade. Have children together… I smiled at the idea of teaching my own son how to swing a sword and ride a horse. I wondered if my son would be anything like Tylan, all wild and untamed. And not given the name 'Snow'. I couldn't imagine having a bastard… it's not a life I'd wish on a child.

Belos and Hilario exchanged quietly on the steps with Helesa, while Mikko brooded a few steps below. Belos' latest protégé, Taenara, lingered at the top of the stairs, picking at the sapphire set inside her rapier, making sure not to look at Mikko, who rattled a stone across his arakh.

"You've the look of a nervous girl." I remarked to Taenara, who turned to face me.

"I… yes, Finn Snow."

"Not to worry." I hopped off of the stone railing, letting out a short gasp as I held my stomach. "We play this right, no-one gets hurt. Well," I sat down next to her, "not really." Taenara didn't smile, instead she tensed up her shoulders, violet eyes flickering away. "You don't look Braavosi." I commented.

"Neither do you." She replied. I couldn't help but laugh at this – Belos definitely had a type he favoured for protégés.

"Aye… that's true enough. Who was your mother?"

"The Queen of Sapphires."

"Queen of Sapphires…" I looked up at the sky, trying to remember if I'd heard the name before. It sounded like a title given to courtesans. "Was she like Helesa?"

"A courtesan." Taenara nodded.

"Do you look like her?"

"No. At least… I don't think so…" Taenara looked at her feet, "she died when I was young."

"I'm sorry. You know, my own mother died when I was young."

Taenara's lilac eyes flickered up to me. "Do you remember her?"

"No. I was a babe." I couldn't help but wonder about her. I'd never met a Targaryen, but she held all the traits. Pale skin, the silver hair and violet eyes… "How about your father?"

"I don't know. Mother said he was a very rich man."

"Of Valyrian descent?"

"What are you filling her head with now, Snow?" Belos' grizzled voice sounded from at the bottom of the stairs. I grinned, climbing down the steps.

"Just getting to know one another." I replied. "After all, all she's had for company is your miserable arse…"

"Charming as ever, my Westerosi." Helesa smiled.

"Everything in place?"

Helesa gave a short nod, "The guards will change soon…" We turned around to see Hilario let out a drunken sneeze.

"Oh for fuck's sake…" I rolled my eyes. "You'd get sauced here?" I asked him.

"I'm piddled is all…" Hilario mumbled, standing up, "Finn Snow. You know, I've always liked you-"

Helesa interrupted Hilario as he struck him across the face, turning back to me. "He'll be ready."

"He better be…" I muttered before facing them all, "this is it. All we need to do is act like we belong. We do this right, and we'll be in and out before anyone knows what's happened. Belos," I gestured to Belos, who was draped in grey robes, "you'll be led in by Hilario and I, disguised as guards. We'll need to impersonate the two on patrol before they switch out. Taenara, you know where to find the boat?" Taenara nodded. "Good. Helesa, once you've done your part, help her find the boat. Mikko,"

"I'm wary of these schemes of yours, Finn Snow. I will not become a thief."

I let out a groan: Mikko's conscience had become a burden to me. His code of honour… everything. It was too restrictive. "Come on, man! We'll be set for life after this!"

Mikko shook his head. "No. Finn Snow, I stood by you through all else, but I do not follow you in this ploy. You run this scheme without me." Mikko looked to Helesa and Taenara, bowing his head before turning to walk away.

"What?" I took a few steps after him. "Mikko, you can't leave…" But, Mikko didn't turn back to me. My closest friend, who I had fought beside for years… "Fine!" I called after him. "Damn you then!" I watched him walk away, not even fazed by my words. I wanted to run after him and shove him to the ground. I wanted to kick him and bawl all the curses under the sun. Helesa grabbed my arm.

"Later."

I gritted my teeth, looking back to Mikko as he turned a corner. Helesa was right – I knew she was – we couldn't attract any more attention. I'd deal with him later. "Fine." I growled. "More riches for us, then."

"That's all your concern, isn't it, Finn Snow?" Hilario muttered.

"What's got into you, man?" I frowned. Hilario scoffed and stood up, storming away. I grabbed Belos' shoulder before he could follow. "What's with Hilario?"

"Nerves, I suppose…"

I nodded, though this didn't make sense. Hilario wasn't the type to get nervous. In fact, it was the aspect of him that annoyed me the most – he was never overconfident, but he was always sure of himself. Though he loved to drink, I'd never seen him morose or sullen. Not like this, anyway.

I watched Belos jog after Hilario, ducking into the alleyway we'd picked out days ago. Helesa, however, walked towards the patrol of two guards who crossed the bridge nearby. After watching her stroke one guard's jaw, and place her hand on the other guard's chest, it took little time before they started to follow her. She truly was adept at her trade.

I began to act drunk, and stumbled along behind the pair of them, rubbing my head and holding Hilario's half-empty bottle of wine. I paused at the corner of the alleyway, watching them walk down and hand Helesa some coins. She smiled, and began to pull up her satin pink dress. However, Belos opened the door of a closed playhouse, and wrapped an arm around one of the guards, wrestling him to the ground. Hilario did the same to the other, albeit a lot more clumsily. This guard tried to call for help, but Helesa pulled a skinny knife from under her dress, placing it to the man's neck and covering his mouth with her free hand.

Belos tightened his grip until a crack was heard. Helesa stood up and stamped her boot on the second man's neck. I glanced around, making sure another patrol was not nearby. I then ran forwards, taking the guard from Belos and stripping off his armour.

"That could've gone better…" I hissed at Hilario.

"It worked, didn't it?" Hilario shrugged as Belos helped him into his armour. I shook my head as Helesa helped fasten it on. It was strange wearing armour like this – I'd not worn any this heavy since sparring in Winterfell.

"Helesa," I took the spear from her as she fastened my sword belt back around my waist, "get Taenara and find the…"

"Find the boat, I know." She picked up the helmet from the man as Belos dragged him to the canal that passed below us. "Stay safe."

"Always do." I grinned. Helesa tangled her fingers in my hair and gave me a gentle kiss, grazing her full lips against my own.

"Time enough for that later," Belos whispered. I placed the helm on my head as Belos rolled the second guard into the water. Helesa moved down the alleyway, where Taenara waited, staring at the water below with wide, horrified eyes. Helesa grabbed her hand and tugged her along through the alleyway.

I turned to Belos, "How do I look?"

"That better be the last blood we spill today."

"Have faith, you old muckworm," I slapped Belos' shoulder.

We were able to march into the Iron Bank unhindered. I kept glancing at Hilario, who had managed to pull together enough of his senses to walk in a straight line. We were on either side of Belos, who entered in the Iron Bank first.

I'd never been in here before. It was a masterpiece – like it had only just finished being constructed. Everything was untouched by time – like it had always stood there. Long rows of men walked by, and the number of guards inside was absolutely staggering. Luckily, Belos had been inside the Iron Bank more times than Hilario and I had been inside winesinks. With sheer confidence, he masqueraded as a Keyholder.

"Valar Morghulis, Ser." One of the Keyholders bowed their head.

"Valar Dohaeris, Ser." Belos bowed deeply, speaking in a refined voice. He reminded me off all the posh Southern prats I came across all those years back at Riverrun. "I wish to access my vault."

"Of course, Ser. May I ask you to present your key?"

Belos fished out the small brass key from beneath his grey robe, showing it to the keyholder, who inspected it with great care and detail. I glanced over to Hilario, whose eyes were focused solely on Belos and the Keyholder.

Finally, the man leant back and smiled. "Of course, Ser. I expect you will want to appraise the object from King Aeron?"

"Indeed, Ser."

The man nodded, and snapped his fingers at Hilario and I. "You two. Will you kindly escort the gentleman to the vaults below."

I gritted my teeth at the snapping of his fingers and bowed my head, following Belos with Hilario as we were admitted entry to the vaults below.

As soon as we were below ground, Hilario leant his spear against the wall and removed his helm. It was a labyrinth of tunnels and staircases, lit every few hundred metres with braziers and torches.

"So, what next, Finn Snow?" Hilario took one of the torches from the wall.

"Now, Belos gets to show off what he learnt before becoming the First Sword of the-" I began to slip into my Braavosi accent before Hilario cut me off.

"Oh, shut up…"

"Someone's a bit sore." I rolled my eyes. "Maybe this prize will cheer up your soaked arse…"

Hilario led us with torchlight as Belos examined the key around his neck. We'd stop every now and then as Belos stroked a finger along the keyhole, the other hand feeling the shape of the key around his neck. He'd shake his head, and we'd move on.

"If it's put in the wrong lock," Belos explained, "the key will shatter. To access the vault, one must know where it is, and which key to use."

"A good way to keep out thieves…" Hilario slurred.

"Not good enough." I grinned. We eventually stopped at one of the large Iron Doors, emblazoned with a serpent winding around the lock. Belos stroked the lock before removing the key from his neck and placing it inside. "You sure about this?"

"As sure as I can be." Belos nodded. With a deep breath, he twisted the key.

And nothing happened.

"Have you done it right?" I asked him.

"I think I know how to turn a key!" Belos hissed.

"Well, clearly not…"

"Give it a second…"

"Why hasn't it happened already?"

"Aren't you patient?" Hilario scoffed. "Helesa is a lucky girl…"

"Alright, Smiling Reaper, you know how I feel about these titles…"

I stopped talking as I the door began to clunk, and the serpent wound it's way around the lock until the door opened inwards.

"We're onto it here, men." I grinned, leaning my spear against the wall. "I can feel it!"

The vault was nearly entirely empty. Nothing sat inside it except darkness. Hilario moved forwards, lighting the torches with his own. As the chamber illuminated, I saw that there was, indeed nothing at all within the vault. Except a stone altar in the centre, which held an object. No great jewel or priceless crown. No gold or silver.

It was large, the size of my own head. A brilliantly white scaled egg, with black tarnishing at the head and tail. It was more valuable than anything else I could have possibly imagined.

"Finn…" Belos spoke gently, "tell me that's not what I think it is…"

I stepped forwards, picking up the egg and examining it near the torchlight. The scales were almost like stone, and the egg had more weight than I thought. What was most noticeable, however, was how warmth seemed to radiate from inside the egg. There was no mistake here. It was a dragon's egg.

" _That's_ the artefact?" Hilario's face filled with awe, "A dragon's egg?"

"Well, men," I raised the egg high, "here's our life of luxury." I couldn't stop grinning. This was it. Worth a kingdom to the right man. The Dothraki worshipped dragons, and the Targaryens used them to conquer kingdoms. "We could sell it to a King… or raise it ourselves." My mind began to race with possibilities. "We could level cities. Win wars!"

"Worth all the death you've dealt?" Belos asked, eyes set on me intently.

"I'd double it for the same prize." I chuckled, my heart thundering in my chest. "And I'd dare say that'd be a bargain." I handed the egg to Belos, letting him examine it. "We'll be the Kings of the Free Cities with that, there!"

Hilario moved towards me as Belos took a step backwards, his face empty of awe or happiness. Instead, there was a smile on his face. A sad smile.

"Such ambition…" he murmured.

I felt something. Looking down, I saw Hilario's hand gripping a knife with penetrated the chink in the armour, in my abdomen. Immediately, I felt my arms start to tingle and feel light. My breath fled my lungs as I looked down at the knife, which Hilario wrenched out of me.

"Hilario?"

"You played your part well, Finn Snow, but I'm afraid our pact is done."

"Belos," I groaned, my legs giving way, "what are you doing?"

I fell to the floor, gasping for air as the wound began sting and sear. "It acts fast, doesn't it?" Belos stated. "That's the thing about manticore venom. A mere scratch can stop the heart in minutes but a wound like that… I didn't want you to hurt for long." Hilario turned away from me, sheathing the knife in his belt once more. The flames seemed to die down, as it became difficult to see. Every word Belos spoke seemed to take longer for me to understand. "Sorcery can delay the effects but… not for long."

"I wish it hadn't come to this… but you've a killer's heart now, Finn Snow." Hilario crouched down, "You could have stood for something. Something greater than yourself – you could have been so much more. Yet you seemed fixed on spilling blood. Everywhere you went…" Hilario sniffled, rubbing his nose, "Braavos is my home. I won't let you destroy it."

I lunged for him, grabbing shirt from beneath his armour, but he just batted away my hand and left me on the floor. "You're a dead man walking, Baharis!" I called after Hilario as he stood up. "You hear me?" I bawled after them. My voice sounded strange… like it belonged to another man. They walked out and tried to pull the door behind them. I heard shouts and the clanking of metal – no doubt the guards had heard my shouting and come to investigate.

"Leave him!" Belos shouted, turning and running back the way we had come.

I began to fumble at the leather fastenings of the armour. I couldn't breathe, the armour was too heavy. I managed to undo it, rolling out of it. I looked down at my shirt, which had been torn open by the knife. I stretched the shirt open, and saw the wound. Pulsing, veins raised and the skin starting to blacken.

My throat constricted as I gasped, my heart clapping hard in my chest. I couldn't help but think about it pumping the venom around my body. I had to get out – Helesa could help me. Or Mikko! Mikko would come back for me – he always did. But first, I had to get out.

I crawled forwards towards the door, grabbing it to push myself up. Outside, I saw my spear, which I used as a walking stick. I pushed all my weight onto it, limping through the tunnels, trying to remember the way we had come.

"That's my prize, Vollys!" I shouted. I wouldn't die. I wouldn't die until I had my reward! I hadn't killed men and women to have him steal it at the last moment… the damned fucking thief!

I heard something – a hissing emenating from the end of the hall. I grabbed the wall to stay upright as I traipsed up the stairs. It was so light here – like I had entered the sun. I covered my eyes and started to splutter and cough. Blood dripped from my mouth and onto the stone floor of the Iron Bank. I looked up to see other guards gasping as well – billowing clouds of smoke hung heavily in the middle of the bank. I tried to move forwards, through the smoke, only to fall onto my knees once more. I let out a yell as I crawled forwards towards the door. I just had to make it out of here. I just had to get out!

"I'll cut you both down!" I shouted between my coughs and gasps, feeling the white smoke infect my lungs. The light began to dim, and my arms felt heavy. I couldn't muster the energy to move them.

I fell forwards, crashing through the doors and rolling down the steps into the courtyard. Guards sullied out and ran, dispersing into alleyways and flat-bottomed boats on the canals. I slunk across the courtyard, through the confusion and shouting, until I arrived at the steps I had sat at mere moments ago. And then, my body stopped working.

Fuck, I wanted some spiced rum. I'd even settle for wine now… Though, what I really wanted was a good ale. Like they did back in the Winter Town, when I used to take Markas out there and got him pissed.

I guess it's true what they say – Northmen don't do well away from home. The warmth melts us. And I was done in. With my last few moments, I thought about Helesa, daydreaming about the children we might've had. I thought about that Old bear, Mormont, back in Winterfell, and his son back near Yunkai, who I'd bled and killed for. I thought about sweet little Evie crying when I called her a name, and young Tylan howling like one of the dogs.

With my last thoughts, I thought about my name. Snow. I was of the North. Give the East their freedom from Kings. Let the South have it's sun. We Northerners had home. And that was my last thought.

 **So… I guess you guys thought the big plot-twist was Belos betraying Finn, right? Well, that was** _ **a**_ **plot-twist, but it's not the one I referred to last chapter. I've been saying it for a while – this is a character-driven story. It's the actions of characters that lead to their deaths. I don't think I've had any characters die from the plot. I mean, even Baldinar's death was brought about by his insult to Finn, and we all knew how violent and quick-tempered Finn was at that point.**

 **So… yeah. Don't forget to Review (and if you don't like something, please say what you don't like and offer advice, thanks!) and follow/favourite if you're enjoying the story! The next chapter is named '** _ **The Last of the Pack**_ **'**


	22. The Last of the Pack

**So, here we are at '** _ **The Last of the Pack**_ **'. The little Bolton POV is mainly just to move a storyline along a bit more. Also, this is one of those pivotal chapters… quite a bit happens. I only just realized how I think almost all of my storylines are character driven… I'm going to take this moment to feel accomplished.**

 **Also,** _ **nevershout**_ **has made a lil'** _ **pintrest**_ **board for her character, Delyth Tyrell – if anyone else has made something like this, please let me know – I always love seeing people imagine their characters with detail and stuff like this!**

 **Raff Bolton – The Dreadfort, The North**

Ten thousand men. Maybe less. Markas Stark had ten thousand men with him, camped just out of range of our arches. As far as the eye could see – they were constructing siege ladders and battering rams. We currently had four thousand men. With the Umbers, it pushed us to just over eight. But, we had the castle. Unless he had forty thousand, he would not be able to take the castle, and he knew it.

Unfortunately, father was not of the same mind.

"Ten thousand men…" He growled, "When I sent you to Oldcastle with Balien, I expected you to kill the Stark boy."

"I know."

"Then you know that you failed me." Father growled.

I was lost for words. All I knew was that I was father's commander. "I'll fix this, father."

"See that you do." Father turned away from the battlements and gestured for me to follow him. "You took Ben Stark's head at the Battle of Sheepshead Hills, and I gave you this opportunity to make amends."

"In war, you don't take prisoners. You told me that."

"I also told you I wanted Ben Stark alive. So I could take my justice." Father pointed a finger at me. "You robbed me of that." He looked out amongst the Stark camp. "What's your plan?"

"We'll ride out and kill the Stark pup." I stated.

"Don't be stupid, dullard." Father snapped at me. "Your bride is returning – if she has to ask Markas Stark to attend her own wedding, she'll turn South at the first chance!"

"I'll ask him to pack up and leave then?" I scoffed. Father's fist clenched, and he drew back his hand as if to strike me, only to pause and heave in breath.

"This is my House. Your House. Your sister's House. I should never have trusted you to fight a war…" Father sighed. "You're still too young. Your time with the Greyjoys taught you of battle, but little of war. I should never have sent you there…"

"I'm a Bolton, father." I protested. "I'll take Markas Stark's head. Tell me, can your precious daughter do that?"

"I wouldn't ask my daughter to do such a thing." Father replied. "She's not the one who's been a constant disappointment."

Father turned and walked back past the other guards, giving out various commands. My new squire, a Locke of twelve years by the name of Danyl, arrived with my axe.

"Here, My Lord," he squeaked, "fresh from the smith."

I picked it up, examining the dulled edge. I grabbed his wrist, scraping the blade along his forearm and examining how little blood I could draw with the edge. The boy gasped and squealed, trying to wrench his wrist away. Finally, I let go, and tossed the axe to him.

"Do it again, and make sure it's sharp this time." I turned away from him, rubbing my eye – Gods, his screams had pained me.

 **Evalyn Stark – Winterfell, The North**

I had only travelled on the Kingsroad once before, when I left home to journey to Storm's End. Back then, Spring was new, and the leaves were fresh and green. Now, time had passed. The leaves had dulled, and the sun hung dully in the sky. And below the sun, on the horizon, was my home, Winterfell.

The first thing I saw was the smoke. I'd lost track of how many days had passed since I had left Storm's End, riding hard and too petrified to sleep at night. The precious hours that I had slept, my dreams were haunted by the beast of Storm's End devouring me in a fountain of flames.

Winterfell looked just like Storm's End now; a smouldering pile of rubble. A graveyard. The tall tower that held my chambers, the watch towers along the castle walls where I used to go to find Markas and pester him until he played with me…

It had happened here as well. Aeron must have flown here and razed my home. I wanted to hope that someone had survived – maybe they'd hidden in the crypt! But there was a sinking feeling in my stomach – I saw what had happened at Storm's End. No-one could survive this.

As my weary horse cantered along, I saw the first casualties of Winterfell. A series of scorched hounds atop the hill. Tylan always loved those dogs… he spent all his days playing with them… they must have escaped.

I was expecting to see Maggie's son, Waryn, call to open the gates for me. But, the gate no longer stood. Instead, the iron and wood had fallen to the ground. I dismounted my horse and tentatively entered Winterfell.

The stones were scorches and blackened, and the towers had fallen down, collapsed in on the courtyard. The dirt of the ground was covered in figures of ash, some seared corpses trapped underneath heavy stones from the towers. The smell was awful, like burnt hog.

"Markas?" I called loudly, "Tylan? Mother?"

There was only silence. The howling of the window carried white ash through the air, against the decimated castle walls as the ravens crowed, soaring above. Smouldering embers still crackled, and the creaking wooden beams that covered the courtyard groaned.

I placed a hand against the singed stone snout of the wolf by the crypt, calling down inside. "Tylan? Mother?"

"Evie?" I turned around to see who had spoken. The voice was frail and strained, but I knew it well. I'd known it all my life. I rushed forwards, searching for where she was. And there, sat against a mound of rubble, her legs trapped under one of the wooden beams, was my mother. Her face was covered in dirt, her singed dress covered in ash. Her dark hair – the hair I had inherited – was unkept, short and uneven. Her eye was swollen and bruised, and as I looked down at her legs, I saw a sharp, splintered bone peek out under her dress. Mother didn't look to be in pain… 'The Stone Wolf', people called her. Even now, she was still Lady Stark.

"Is that you, Evie?" Mother's face seemed to glow, and the corners of her lips pulled up into a smile – something I'd rarely seen before. A weak hand raised up to graze my chin. "My sweet little girl…" Mother murmured, "is this a dream?"

"I'm here, mother." I held her hand against my cheek.

"Good," mother sighed, "I was tired of waiting for you." I let out a small laugh at this. I couldn't remember my mother ever making a joke before.

"Wait here, I'll fetch herbs and tonics from the Maester's-"

"No, no," mother waved a hand, "I don't think that there's any time for that."

"But…" I didn't know how to say it. Or, rather, I didn't want to. Saying it made it real. But, I had tended to the soldiers in Winterfell before. I'd also read tomes on healing. I knew mother wasn't going to get better. Just from looking at her… "Mother, I can't…"

Mother stroked her thumb along the top of my hand, smiling as her other hand tangled her fingers in my brown locks. "My only daughter."

I couldn't say anything. If I spoke, I knew I'd cry. Mother never showed when she was hurt: 'We're Northern women,' she used to tell men, 'Northern women are the strongest of all.' "Mother," I found myself speaking, "where's Tylan?"

Mother's eyes glossed over to the rubble of scorched corpses before she shut her eyes tightly. Seeing her like this… it was like seeing a sword be cloven in two. Like a shield being splintered.

"My husband is dead…" Mother croaked, "My first-born is at war… my youngest…" Her voice broke as a small tear began to slide down her cheek, glimmering the sun that shone through the decimated towers. I wrapped my arms around her, feeling her hands hold my hair once more, stroking it as she used to brush it, back before I left. Truth be told, I didn't want to see her face. I didn't want her to see me cry. "Evie, go back South," mother sniffled. "Go back to Storm's End…"

"I can't," I sobbed, pulling back and wiping my eye, "Aeron Targaryen. He razed it to the ground." I could feel my lip trembling, my chest couldn't stop heaving. I wished I could control it, like mother doubtlessly would have wanted me to, but it was beyond my control. "What do I do?" I sniffed, "How do I help?"

Mother cut me off with a hush, as she raised her hand, wiping away my tears with a dirtied thumb. Her cold, slender fingers pressed against my pale skin as she cupped my cheek. "I'm glad you're safe." She whispered. "Go to your room and find some furs. Find Markas. He'll protect you. It's a long ride…" Mother's eyes began to flicker shut, "get food from the kitchen," She gave me a drowsy smile, "I don't want you to go hungry."

"What if I can't?" I struggled finishing the words. Breath seemed to flee my lungs in sobs and gasps. I'd come so far… I didn't know if I could go much further. "What do I do?" Mother hushed me once again, stroking my cheek as she raised my face to look at me, with her soft grey eyes smiling into my own. "I don't want to leave you."

"My Pale Wolf…" She rasped, "I don't want you to either. But a mother can never be selfish. You'll know this, in time." She dropped my hands to my dress, picking at the fabric. "I'm glad I got to see you in your bridal gown." She smiled, her lips quivering and eyes swimming. "A mother should see her daughter in her wedding dress."

"Mother…" I covered my mouth and took a moment to steel myself, "mother, everyone's dead…"

Mother grabbed my hand in a vice grip, as if this strength had come from somewhere deeply hidden within her, "You are not." She informed me. "You may have wed, but you are a Stark of Winterfell. You will find your brother, and you will rebuild Winterfell."

I felt mother's grip begin to loosen, her eyes starting to glaze over as her shoulders began to relax. "I'll find Markas. I promise."

"What are our words?" Mother asked in a dazed voice.

"W-winter is coming."

"Show them." Mother's eyes began to dim, her voice began to fade. "Promise me, Evie."

"I promise." The corners of her lips curled upwards, until her hand no longer gripped mine. It just hung heavily upon my own. Her eyes were still and her lips turned back into that thin line I'd seen throughout my childhood.

I held my mother's head and would weep until the sun set on Winterfell.

 **Corlys Velaryon – Dragonstone, The Crownlands**

Visenya was… different. Just as beautiful as she had ever been, unburdened by age. Growing up, mother and father always spoke about the Targaryens… beautiful creatures, full of greatness and mysticism. 'Fire and Blood', they were the living embodiment of their words, perhaps moreso than any other house.

The first time I came to Dragonstone, I was amazed. I'd never seen a keep like it... I was of Valyrian blood, but not like the Targaryens. Their dragons had razed a mountain of stone with their fire and from it, given birth to a historic keep of legends. I couldn't remember a time that I didn't want to be a Targaryen. Destined for greatness, descended from heroes like Aegon, Rhaenys and Visenya.

My Queen, Visenya, was little more than half my age, but already I envied her. I detested that I did, and I hated my own detestation more, because Visenya was everything I wanted. Glory, greatness… The Targaryens were the most talented and skilled in Westeros. Their dragons made them Gods to mere mortals like us. And what truly worried me, was that when the Gods waged war, it was the mortals who died.

"The Stark men have besieged the Dreadfort, Your Grace," Celtigar spoke. "By my estimations, the Boltons will not last the next fortnight."

"Then peace will return for the North." Visenya nodded. "They're not much… no better than beasts."

"Beasts prove valuable warriors, Your Grace." I informed her. "Regardless, the Starks are honourable people. Perhaps if we can entreat with them for an allegiance, they can bolster our own armies."

"There are better ways to forge an alliance." Lord Celtigar pointed out. "Your Grace, you are Queen, but you have no heirs. Lord Markas Stark is unwed, and the Warden of the North. A match with him could prove valuable…"

"A Stark?" Visenya scoffed. "If I am to wed a man, he'll not be a sullen, brooding mess."

"The Starks are honourable and proud." Lord Celtigar argued.

"Your Queen will not wed a Stark." I repeated. "We shall wait until the War in the North is won before approaching any of the Northern houses for an alliance…"

"No." Visenya said with a sigh. "I will not wed a Northerner, but we do not have time to spare." Visenya leant across the table, taking the wooden stag heads off the table, "The Baratheons cannot march with us. Lord Velaryon," she looked up at me, "I'll ask you to travel to the Stormlands and ask the houses to gather their banners to march on King's Landing." I nodded. "Lord Celtigar, I'll ask you to travel North…"

The doors burst open, and two armoured knights entered, kneeling before Visneya. "Your Grace." They both garbled the words.

"Ser Ryon, Ser Norren. What is the meaning of this?"

"Your Grace, we've spotted something on the beach…"

As we walked along the long stretch of stairs and pathways to the shore of Dragonstone, we saw one object first. A large carcass, with dark bronze scales, torn apart and falling apart. Golden horns and long teeth were stuck in the beach as the she-dragon lay unmoving in the sand. Inside her wing by her breast, was a young man. The closer we came, we saw the wet silver hair cast across his face as he pushed tried to crawl, one hand clutching his stomach.

"Viserys!" Visenya cried, running along the sand and falling to her knees next to him, holding him close to her. She cradled his head as his eyes searched the sky. He was paler than I'd ever seen him before, with his violet eyes swollen, his skin bloated and sun-scorched.

"Seven hells…" I muttered. He'd survived! If the dragon hadn't killed him, the sea surely would have. The maester moved past us to un-do Viserys' torn scarlet jerkin, examining the magnitude of talon-scars and sears across his shoulders and abdomen.

"Get him inside!" The maester instructed as Visenya unpinned her broach of a silver three-headed dragon, and wrapped her cloak around her brother. As Ser Ryon and Ser Norren lifted him up to carry him back to the keep, Visenya's eyes were set upon the she-beast, Moonfyre, that lay dead in the sand.

"She saved him." Visenya muttered, looking back to me. "Long live the King."

 **So… a lot's happened in this chapter. But yeah – many of you guessed right – Viserys survived Storm's End by the skin of his teeth… rather, by the scales of Moonfyre. So, let me know what you thought of this thoroughly depressing chapter.**

 **Reviews are appreciated and so on… Can you please also give me an update on who your favourite characters are, and whose storylines you're enjoying the most.**

 **Also, fan theories are great to hear - it's fun when some of you are spot on, but it's even more fun when you fall for the red herrings I dish out.**

 **The next chapter is titled '** _ **The Dragon Egg**_ **'.**


	23. The Dragon Egg

**Hey guys! A bit late on this update, but here you go! Also, there's a character that I want in particular - a young Dornishman. Message me before sending this character in – I just came up with the idea as I was writing this chapter.**

 **Can I also get some more bannermen? For House Reed and House Karstark. Before sending in for House Reed, can you PM me – there's a slight thing about this character I'd like to tell you about beforehand…**

 **Taenara Faenis – The Drowned Town, Braavos**

Hilario was different. Usually, he'd always seemed so full of happiness and jokes – he made me laugh. He'd canter thrown the town and charm absolutely every lady that he came across. He used to be so fond of telling me stories about his trysts with courtesans – stories that Belos never liked him to tell me. But now, his short brown hair shined with grease. His beard was unkept and uneven. Even his clothes had begun to smell.

Two days had passed since they'd entered the Iron Bank, and left without Finn Snow. Upon asking where he was, they'd simply told me he had fallen.

We were sat in a small, dingy shack built on the side of a tower from discarded ship parts. The room we were in was barely big enough for three people, let alone that scores of children that slept there. An elderly man, Vargo, sat in his small rickety chair, leaning on his cane as he smiled at me, waiting for me to drink the small brass cup of peach tea, served with a stale loaf of olive bread.

"They don't have much," Belos informed me, "but they share what they do have."

I wanted to insist on them keeping their food and tea – Belos provided plenty for me, but Belos nodded towards the tea. I took a sip – horribly sweet and full of bits. I took a bite of the olive bread, despite my fears that my teeth would crack. Vargo smiled, revealing several of his yellowed teeth had fallen out.

I didn't want to talk to him. In fact, he was repulsive to look at. Crackled skin like he was afflicted with some disease, and shaking wrinkled fingers with missing fingernails that clasped his own brass cup of tea.

"Vargo takes care of the children here." Belos informed me. "Runaways, castaways, orphans… he takes them in."

That could have been me. After my mother's death, I'd lost all of her fortune. Well… no, not lost. It had been taken from me. If Belos hadn't found me… this is what I would have been.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because it's right." Belos stated simple. He turned to Hilario, holding out a hand. Hilario passed him the leather pelt bag. "Vargo," Belos spoke, "I want you to know, your efforts have not gone unappreciated." Vargo bowed his head with a chuckle, holding up a modest hand. "I can think of no-one else who would divide the profits of this evenly. It'll be enough for you to create an orphanage, and help tenfold the children here."

Belos opened the bag, revealing the large egg. It was bigger than my head! All white and flecked with black scales. It was as if it had been painted by someone who wished to describe the Gods. Belos leant across the table, handing it to Vargo.

The old man's eyes grew wide as he looked from the egg to Belos to Hilario to me and back to the egg. One of the younger, dark-skinned children approached, a finger inside his mouth while his other hand tugged at his shirt. Vargo leant down and spoke in some strange, distant language. The boy looked blankly at Belos before holding up his small hand, waving at him. Belos gave a small smile from under his hood.

Vargo placed the egg down on the table and held his cane and stood up, speaking in guttural murmurs as he wrapped his shaking, fragile arms around Belos. Belos returned the embrace, and Vargo pressed his chapped, weathered lips against Belos' forehead. He then turned to do the same to Hilario.

I tried to look away – the man made me feel uncomfortable. Just looking at him… it reminded me of what I could have been. To have to rely on someone with so little…

I thought I saw something. The egg moved. Just at the top, around the blackened top of the head. The scales seemed to lurch and stretch. Until one of the scales peeled backwards as a small white snout peered out of the top of the egg.

A miniscule head of a dragon peered out of the egg, looking at me. It's eyes were like two brilliant rubies, dark and strange. It was like some ghostly apparition was in front of me. The wings starts to move, splintering apart the eggshell until the newborn dragon babe stretched out's wings and began to squawk gently.

The small boy saw this too, as he began to tug on Vargo's shirt, pointing at the creature. Hilario saw this as well, grabbing Belos' shoulder, and then everyone in the room noticed it. The dragon had hatched, taking a few tentative steps forwards and examining it's wings, shaking the eggshell off it's back.

"R'hllor, Lord of Light…" Hilario whispered to himself.

"Belos?" I was terrified to take my eyes off the creature, which began to turn around, flexing it's thin tail. I'd heard of what dragons could do. I knew I should be terrified, but the small little dragonling looked so… gentle. "Belos, what do I do?"

"Alright… we just need to put it…" Belos looked around anxiously. He stopped talking as he saw the dragonling start to crawl towards the window, squawking as it came closer to the sunlight outside. Belos took slow steps towards it, hands open and tensed as he neared the dragonling, pausing every so often.

But a floorboard creaked under Belos' boot. The dragonling let out a yelp and began to move its small little legs and flapping its wings. It hopped off the ground once, then twice, until it flew up. Belos lunged forwards, his hand closing as he reached for the tail. And his hand closed too slowly.

The dragonling's foot pushed against the windowsill, and flew out across the water, letting out gentle squawks as it became a white speck across the water.

Belos leant on the windowsill, hanging his head down. Hilario strode across to him, and hissed in Belos' ear.

"We killed him for nothing."

 **Cedric Glover – The North**

Markas walked between the four of us, clasping a fist around the hilt of his Valyrian greatsword, Ice, as he looked around the camp, deep in thought as the swamp-headed Reed argued against Karstark. The Reeds were strange folk… came from the marsh and mire in the south of the Kingdom… The Gatekeepers to the North. They were the strangest people I'd come across. When they swore fealty, it wasn't by Gods or honour like the rest of us. They were ancient dark words, by the dirt and water, the bronze and iron, and the ice and fire.

"The Boltons won't surrender." Karstark preached. "The buggers will skin and cook their own cats before they yield the castle."

"We don't have the men to storm the castle now. My Lord," Reed turned to Markas, "starve them out. When their strength has faded and their men are starving, then perhaps we may be able to attack."

I expected the boy to agree. To fight like a Southnor – too scared to get scratches on their pretty armour. Though, I will admit, the boy led his forces into battle. It seems that he was a Northerner, if only a poor imitation for one.

"House Umber resides inside the Dreadfort as well," Markas stated, "if we stay here, their armies will fall upon us."

"We can take the wellops." Reed growled. That was the thing about the marshmen… they had their own words, their own sounds… it was like another language down there.

"Unless the Boltons and Umbers ride out in force. Then we're all fucked." Markas rubbed his eyes as he looked around. Eventually, his eyes fell on a young squire, struggling to carry all his master's armour. Markas' grey eyes flickered across the young boy, following him across the field. He couldn't have been older than fourteen. "How many more do you think will die if we took the castle?"

"Tomorrow?" I thought for a moment. "If we had the element of surprise… perhaps somehow get their blasted gate down… half."

"Half?"

"Cerwyn's tucked tail and marched home with his men." I informed Karstark, looking to Markas. "And I wouldn't call him craven for it."

Markas stroked his chin, crossing his arms as he looked out across the field at the Dreadfort.

"Was my Lord father a great warrior?"

"Bennard?" We all looked at each other. I shrugged, "Not the worst I've seen."

"So the man who killed him… he isn't necessarily a great warrior?"

"Raff Bolton?" Karstark stepped forwards, "the man's a demon! He was raised as an Ironborn!"

"So his only experience was against fishermen." Markas replied. "And Alvar? What is he like on the field?"

"Why are you asking, My Lord?" Reed crept forwards.

"My ancestor, Torrhen Stark, bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror when all his advisors bade him not to. In Uniting the North, my ancestors spilled just as much blood as Aegon did. My ancestor knew that the North is not the kingdom, it's the people." Markas gulped as he took a quivering breath. "Continue with the siege ladders. Set a perimeter digging trenches. Once all is done, I shall entreat Alvar Bolton to settle this in the Old Ways."

I couldn't believe it. May the Gods of Fire and Fuck come down and smack me in the jaw. What he was saying… it was ridiculous! No man in the North was that bold. Not I, maybe not even Raff Bolton.

"My Lord…" Reed frowned. Like me, he must've thought he'd misheard Markas, who turned around and repeated himself.

"Alvar and I shall fight in single combat."

 **Mikko – The Iron Bank, Braavos**

I had little left in my purse after I gave a couple of coins to the small child begging. It should be enough for me to buy myself a horse and head south. With Finn Snow set on murder and thievery… there was little for me there.

When I had first met him, he'd been playing dice with another soldier of the Second Sons. The only thing is, that Finn Snow had what he later informed me were 'loaded' dice. Weighted to fall a certain way. When Finn's competitor found out about this, Finn Snow had replied 'That's odd' with a smile before engaging in a brawl.

He was young – younger than most of the other soldiers, bought fought with a fire deep inside him. With sharp speed and precision, his blade was more like an arrow. And the strength behind his strikes… he may have rivalled the Bloodriders of my old khalasar. Possibly. The other soldiers gathered around to watch and cheer and place bets on who they thought would win. It was all brief, and Finn Snow ended up on the other man, punching him in the face until the men stopped cheering and started to shout, trying to pry Finn Snow off him. I was the only one who he didn't punch into the ground.

I didn't enjoy leaving Finn Snow. I didn't feel better or more noble, but thieves… thievery is not victimless. It's not worth gold or jewels or horses. It always ends in death… whether the victims starved or hired sellswords to find the thieves… someone always died.

I'd had enough blood on my hands. I'd suffered enough loss. I'd dealt enough death to know how it can change a man.

I made my way back to the Purple Harbour with the intent of buying passage south to Yunkai when I saw him. At the bottom the stairs, in the corner by a forgotten alleyway, was Finn Snow. Pale skin and hair tangled and shining, Finn Snow was slumped against the wall, head lolled onto his chest and eyes glazed over.

"Snow?" I rushed towards him, clasping the side of his head. His eyes didn't move, and skin was as frozen as his name. I held his head up to look at me, but his eyes remained ice, those dark, dark eyes weren't looking at anything anymore. I looked down at his torso. His dark jerkin was still untied, and as I looked down to his belly, I found a tear in his white shirt. Now, it was covered in blood – a knife wound. As I pulled the shirt open slightly more, I found the wound, all black like the blade had burnt it as it went in.

"Snow…" I'd left him. If I had been there, perhaps I could have prevented this. I couldn't help but think back to my moon, Alias. Her beautiful string of oyster pearls… just like my own. Everytime I heard them clink together beneath my leathers, I could remember them around her neck. I could remember them being taken. I could remember the blood as I took them back.

I looked around. This was no place for Finn Snow to die. He was my friend. Too young to become a feast for dogs and crows alike. I grabbed his arms and pulled him over my shoulder, looking around for the way to the Drowned Town, where the Daughter of Dusk resided.

I may have left him. But now I could put him to rest.

 **So guys, there it is. We've only got 6 chapters left of this instalment and… well, so much stuff changes. Seriously – I don't think you have any idea what is going to happen… The next chapter will be up when I get that Dornishman because… well, it's a good storyline I have in mind.**

 **Also, I might be interested in some Tully's…**

 **Anyhoo, leave a review and let me know what you thought! These next few chapters are kinda the cliffhanger ones. Anyway, the next chapter is named** _ **The Bones of a Bastard**_ **, and will be taking place in King's Landing and Braavos.**


	24. The Bones of a Bastard

**So… there's been a lot of theories about this chapter. I've got to say that every theory you guys put out there is one I carefully examined and thought about in terms of the entire story. However, I've tried to make what happens original and realistic… Jesus, the amount of research I had to do was ridiculous.**

 **I just wanted to say a massive thank you – after this chapter, we'll probably be at 200 reviews, which is absolutely crazy! Thank you all so much!**

 **And, I do take note of reviews. I know some of you have voiced how Aeron and Viserys have taken a backseat for this instalment, and it's true – but that's because after re-reading the first instalment, pretty much everything revolved around the two of them, and I wanted this story to be a lot more varied. But, I have been re-examining the storyline, and I've always planned to pull them back into the focus after drifting away and showing you Braavos for a bit.**

 **Anyway, rest assured, there's going to be some major developments over the next 6 chapters, where we will be ending '** _ **A Realm of Ashes**_ **'.**

 **Julian – Gin Alley, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

Roto's friends were just like him. Cocky, loud-mouthed and full of rising ire. It was one of the few nights I'd come along – if only to make sure Roto didn't argue with the wrong man and find a knife in his belly for his troubles. We looked like peasants, in our moth-bitten fabrics and old, cracked leathers, but there was something about the songs they bellowed in the streets, and the laughter that echoed down the crowded streets. They believed themselves to be kings, princes, heroes. Spending their coins like nobles and strutting around like Aegon the Conqueror re-born.

I didn't really belong. They were all young lads, ready to find some trouble. Perhaps, if I was brought up different and Roto wasn't there, I might've been the same. But I wasn't and Roto was, so I stayed my course of drinking a finger of ale for every bottle they devoured.

We eventually found our way to the inn that Roto had set a course for. _The Yawning Doormouse_. A quaint little tavern, tucked away beside Riler's favourite brothel, _The Goldfinch_ and a local butcher's owned by a crock by the name of Anderen.

Inside the tavern, crowds of drunkards and back-alley whores staggered and careened back and forth, haggling on the price of ale, wine and flesh. The men all sang to the songs of the minstrel. She was a woman a handful of years my senior, with vibrant red hair that flickered in the candlelight. I recognized the girl vaguely – Cara. She played in a different tavern each night, and Riler's gaze often lingered on her. It's no surprise that when he visited the _The Goldfinch_ , he tended to ask for Cara and Cara only. She was pretty – almost like one of them posh Ladies from the Red Keep.

"Cara…" Roto grinned, "that body!" He whistled. "Seven Hells…"

"Roto," I grabbed my cousin's wrist, "what are we doing here?"

"Just seeing some friends…" Roto said innocently. That innocent voice that young men speak in when they're lying to you.

"Roto, I'm not going to let you gamble away your wages again. If Riler found out-"

"He won't because I'm not playing dice again!" Roto protested. "Besides, it wasn't my fault last time."

"It never is…" I rolled my eyes.

"Look, just…" Roto searched for the words, "promise me you'll stay for a bit. If you're still not convinced, we'll both leave and do whatever you want."

"Not convinced?" I frowned, "What are you talking about?"

"Just… swear to me. Please?"

I bit my lip as I looked around the tavern. I didn't like when Roto kept things from me, but he always kept his word. I could simply insist I was not convinced and take him home…

"Fine," I said finally, "I swear."

"Swear what?" Roto raised an eyebrow knowingly.

"I swear I'll give… whatever this is a chance before I take you home."

Roto grinned, punching me excitedly on the shoulder, "I knew you were a good man, Julian…"

"Alright, alright, you drunkard…" I couldn't stop smiling at his youthful energy. "Let's go and... what are we doing?"

Roto grinned, grabbing my wrist and pulling me towards the other boys. We all walked to the Innkeeper, Vex. Long-faced and fair-skinned, Vex's pale green eyes caught us, and she moved her slender body from behind the bar and opened the doors to the stairs, letting us pass through.

 **Anderen –** _ **The Yawning Doormouse**_ **, Fleabottom, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

I smacked my lips, looking down at the chipped floorboards and seeing the candlelight bleed through. The noise was too damned loud… how foolish I was for believing Vex would have some respect for an old man. The whore, Caraleigh could've taken a fucking break from her screeching songs… what happened to the old, traditional songs?

The door opened, and in sauntered four boys. Roto and his two friends, Loryan and Rowlyn. The fourth boy, however, I didn't know. Burly and brown-haired, uneven, crooked teeth and a nose that was too curved. His hands were covered in dirt and grime, and I didn't know him.

"About fucking time…" I sipped my cup of ale, smacking my lips, "who's this?"

"This is Julian." Roto introduced the man.

"Why is he here?"

"He's my cousin," Roto protested, "there's no man I trust more."

"Why are we up here talking to this crock?" The new one, Julian, asked his cousin.

"You've not told him?" I guffawed. "You dopey bastard…"

"Seven Hells…" Roto moved to sit down, "how've you got this far with no-one lopping off your head?"

"I'm better with a cleaver…"

"Wait… You're Anderen." Julian pointed at me. "The Butcher."

"I am." I confirmed myself. "You're a blacksmith's apprentice as well then?"

"I am."

"How's your work?"

"Better than most…" Julian's eyes flickered around the room.

"Cocky?"

"I work hard. There's nothing cocky about that."

I scoffed, "I'll decide that. Can you make us knives?"

"Knives?"

"And bolts for a crossbow."

"For the proper price…" Julian narrowed his eyes… "Come by the forge-"

"No, no-one can see us buying them." I hissed. "It's of the upmost fucking importance."

"Why?" Julian looked from Roto's bashful gaze at the floor to me.

"Aeron is a bastard on the throne, young blacksmith." I informed him. "You must have heard the rumours of him murdering his brother."

"That's all it is. A rumour."

"And what about the razing of Storm's End?" I couldn't help smile at the young boy struggle to find a rebuttal. "Or Winterfell?"

"What of it?"

"A king who burns his subjects is a king who will soon destroy the realm as we know it."

"And what would the four of you and a handful of knives do to stop it?" Julian crossed his arms.

I leant forwards, watching him intently with a smile. "You're a blacksmith. What do men do best with your arms?"

Julian looked from Roto to Loryan to Rowlyn and back to me. "You're mad… we're talking about treason here. High treason!"

"Regicide." Roto nodded.

"No! Seven Hells Roto…" Julian turned to his cousin, "what are you involved with here?" He stood up to leave, but Roto caught his arm.

"Julian, we can help people here. We can make a real difference…"

"If you want to help people, become a Septon or take the black." Julian cast his eyes over us. "I've heard him out. This plan is forsaken."

"You barely-"

"Roto. Now." Roto sighed, looking at his feet before standing up and following his cousin out.

"Wretched fucking cowards…" I spat the words, drinking my ale and smacking my lips again. "Now," I turned to the other two men, "how's about we kill the King?"

 **Helesa Irniros – The Drowned Town, Braavos**

I didn't spend too much time in this room. Most nights I was on my barge taking tribute from my patrons, but tonight I was waiting for Finn Snow. His scheme had hatched at dawn, and as the sun grew heavier, the moon grew lighter.

I opened the trunk, examining what Finn would want to take. I'd brought the handful of possessions he'd left with me when he left Braavos some years ago. His old rapier, gifted to him by Belos. A small golden guard wrapped around the hilt, which had a black garnet in the jaws of a wolf on the pommel. I picked it up, examining the weight of it by slicing the air with the rapier. R'hllor, I'd never held a sword much before – it was… solid. The look of these blades were so thin like wisps of smoke, but this… this was strong. This was a blade that could pierce through a man's skull.

The door crashed open, and Mikko entered. Burly, clad in leather with knives sheathed all around him. Over his shoulder, he held a body of a more lean man, clad in dark breeches and a matching doublet.

"I didn't know where to take him…" Mikko explained, moving forwards and laying the body on the table.

"Mikko, what are you…" I stopped talking as soon as I saw the body. The dark eyes, pale skin, pointed, long features and dark hair… it was Finn Snow. His skin was covered in a cold sweat, his arms hung off the table, all limp and oddly.

I didn't know what to do exactly. It was Finn but… he wasn't there. As Mikko put him down, his unfastened doublet parted, and I saw the bloodied shirt. I stretched out a hand, feeling his hand – the warmth was starting to leave him.

"This wasn't supposed to happen…" I muttered. I touched his hair – R'hllor, I used to lie in bed with him, looking at that hair spread out like a blooming flower…

"I don't know what he wanted to do…" Mikko spoke quietly in a deep rumble, "His body."

"He never spoke about it."

"I'll return him to his family." Mikko stated. "Back in Winterfell. Lay his bones to rest…"

" _This_ is his home!" I hissed at Mikko. He didn't understand… either he didn't know Finn well enough or he was too much of a barbarian to understand. Westeros hadn't been Finn's home for years. This was his home. He didn't have a family back there. He had been mine just as I had been his.

"We will seek justice for him." Mikko stated. "Agreed?"

It wasn't guards who killed Finn… he would've been strung up in the courtyard as an example. Perhaps it was a crook in an alley? Another Bravo? Whoever they were, I'd burn Braavos to the ground and let them choke on the ashes.

"Agreed." I nodded at Mikko.

I'd have to say a prayer for him. My mother praised the Moonsingers but… I didn't know if the Moonsingers had prayers or rites for the dead. My mother hadn't imparted much of their practices before she passed. Father had praised the Red God, however.

"Lord of Light," I tried to remember the words, "look down on us. Life is warmth, warmth is fire, and fire is…" I placed my hands on Finn's wound, and that's when it struck me. It was still bleeding.

I looked to the doorway, seeing the blood speckled across the wooden floor. I pressed a hand to his forehead – the sweat was cold, but the body still had some warmth to it. I opened the tear in his shirt to examine the wound – the veins and skin were all blackened around the injury. Father had described the effects of Manticore Venom to me before. It killed anyone as soon as it reached the heart…

"He's still bleeding."

"Bleeding?" Mikko squinted at me.

I dug into the trunk, pulling out the vials of monkshood, deadly nightshade, corn cockle tonic and raw hemlock juice. I found some vinegar, and poured it over my steel knife, which I used to cut into Finn's torso five times. And each time, blood immediately slid out.

"What are you doing?"

"He's still bleeding!" I exclaimed, coating the knife in vinegar once more and putting it in the fire. I rushed back to the trunk, pulling out everything I could find. Mustard seeds, but no nettles. I ran to the table, grabbing one of Mikko's knives and using the pommel to crush the seeds.

"Helesa, what-"

"Run downstairs – get me some moulded bread!"

"Moulded bread?" Mikko frowned.

"Bread that's bad to eat!"

Mikko nodded and dashed down the stairs. I grabbed one of the crystal glasses, tossing the rum out of it and scooping the crushed mustard seeds into it. Mikko re-appeared, holding a loaf of awfully stale bread, covered in mould. I grabbed it from him, peeling off the mould with the knife.

"Keep crushing it," I ordered Mikko, as I moved around to Finn's head, cutting off a short measure of hair. I put it in the second glass, pouring the small vial of corn cockle tonic over it. The tonic immediately began to bubble and sizzle.

This was Manticore Venom, undoubtedly. Though, Finn was still bleeding, meaning his heart was still beating. Yet his body was not convulsing, and he didn't look to have vomited. I poured the hair and tonic into the fire before washing it out with the last of the vinegar.

Manticore, deadly as it's sting, Nightshade, as gentle as kissing. Deadly Nightshade – I ground it up in my hands, and poured the pieces into the glass. But there was something else…

"How deep is the cut?" I rushed back to the body, opening the shirt and examining it again. The veins were affected, and the amount of bleeding… it was a deep wound. Leeches would take too long to get, and they'd only die trying to suck out the bad blood. Hemlock could thin the blood. I rushed back to grab the glass, and uncorked the foul smelling hemlock juice, pouring a drop of it into the antidote.

"What are you making?" Mikko asked me.

"It's an antidote." I informed him. "Easy to make…"

"You've made it before?"

"No, never." I opened the wound with one hand, pouring the tonic into the flesh, which began to contort and stiffen. "Put that in with the seeds." I ordered Mikko, who scraped the mould into the glass. I took pinches of it, pouring it into the gash, and stuffing it down with my fingers.

"Manticore venom acts immediately," I informed Mikko. "The victim is dead as soon as it reaches the heart."

"But not with Finn?"

"People have been known to thicken the venom with sorcery."

"Sorcery?"

"Spells, incantations, magic."

"Witchcraft?"

"Yes, Mikko. Witchcraft." I moved back to the table, pouring a bit of brandy into the basin and dipping my hands into it.

"Guards use witchcraft?"

"No… they don't." I frowned. Belos had often asked me about poisons but… he cared for Finn. No, this had to be someone else… perhaps one of the Shadowborn's thieves seeking vengeance?

Mikko leant over Finn, examining his eyes. "How will we know?"

"If it works?" I walked over to the bed, sitting down. "If he continues bleeding." Mikko walked over to me, sitting down on the bed as well. I supposed it would take the night or two of them for the antidote to fully run its course. But it would be a long wait.

 **So, some of you guessed this correctly. Yeah, I threw out a couple of red herrings about resurrection. The idea did cross my mind, but it's something that we've seen on GoT before and, tbh, I don't really want to involve Gods or supernatural enemies – I do want the main focus of this to be primarily people (with one exception or two).**

 **Damn – you know I had to read 3 books on natural-occurring poisons and antidotes? The looks I got in the library…**

 **Anyhoo, leave a review and tell me what you thought of this chapter. The next chapter takes place in King's Landing and Braavos and is named '** _ **The Gold Wedding**_ **'.**


	25. The Gold Wedding

**Hi guys! I knew this took a while, but that's because it's a 4000 word chapter, and also because I wanted to make sure to read all your reviews. There's a bit of a… oh, I can't even say it. Just read on.**

 **Also, this story now has over 200 reviews, and in one month, over a staggering 2000 views! That's absolutely insane, I can't thank you all enough for the support, attention, and critique this story has got.**

 **Many of you have expressed concern in my storytelling, and I do thank you for that – it is seriously invaluable. Sometimes when you tell me you don't want something to happen, I won't do it purely because no-one will want to read it and I won't want to write it because of that, but on the other hand, sometimes I will write things you may not like. But, hopefully, you'll come to see why they're necessary. Whether it's to form a moral of the story, to show a massive contrast to the show or to simply just move the story along…**

 **Just know that when you express concern, I am always listening, and if there's grounds to it, I always look at the entire storyline and consider changing it because that's how much your opinions mean to me guys.**

 **Anyhoo, go and enjoy the wedding!**

 **Aeron Targaryen – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

I looked over to Lady Theadosia, who sat in the chair by the fire, sipping from a cup of wine, eying my jerkin. She was dressed in similar colours to me, her hair worn down like a true Northern Lady.

"The Dreadfort?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Markas Stark has proven to be quite the military commander."

"My father's wife often spoke of his prowess." I turned away from Theadosia, "but in my opinion, it doesn't take much to repel the Ironborn…"

"Though the Southern armies struggled to do so." Theadosia curled her lip slightly. I couldn't help but smile and chuckle – it was true what they said about the Northern girls. They didn't favour small talk.

"What do you think?" I opened my arms, showing her the cushioned velvet doublet.

"Very handsome." She smiled, standing up. "I'm sure your pretty fool will swoon all over you."

"That 'pretty fool' is to be my wife. And your queen." I poured myself a glass of wine.

"Aegon had two wives." Theadosia pointed out. It was true, Theadosia had a certain… allure to her. There was something utterly intoxicating about a woman whose eyes resembled a strange, wild beast. Us Dragons were drawn to it – only we could tame the most dangerous creatures known to man.

"I'm no conqueror." I debated. "Not yet."

"So, what do you intend to do about it?"

"About what?"

"The Starks."

I rolled my eyes and groaned. "First you say you will not ask a king to fight your battles. Now you ask to me to act?" Thea flicked her tongue over her teeth, the corner of her lip curling as she sipped more wine. "Besides…" I turned to examine myself in the mirror, "I have more important matters to deal with."

"Such as the pretty-"

"Such as my traitorous sister." Visenya… the whore. She was unwed, and upon news of Viserys meeting his death at Storm's End, she was sure to continue his doomed rebellion. But, with the Stormlands and the North in array, and the Reach and the Westerlands in support of me, she could only turn to the Riverlords and the Lords of the Vale. "No doubt she plots against me."

"Of course," Theadosia nodded, "So why not go to Dragonstone and burn her in her keep?"

"Dragonstone is mine." I stated. "I will not destroy the home my ancestors built. It will belong to Laena, if she remains loyal."

"Laena?" Theadosia scoffed.

"She destroyed Winterfell." I informed her. "You have quite a bit to thank her for."

"I'll remember to do so at your impending nuptials." Theadosia set down her cup of wine, "That reminds me…" She took my glass and placed it on the table as well, "There was more to the ravenscroll." She raised the small piece of parchment, "My father has found me a match."

I took the scroll from her, reading it.

… _The honourable Lord Balien, son of Bale, of House Flint, has approached me for your hand in marriage. I find it a suitable match, and have accepted. Upon your return, you shall be wed to him…_

"Congratulations are in order." I stated. "This Balien…"

"Loyal to my father, and therefore, to you." She promised me.

I nodded. "Good. Well, I'm afraid after seeing this wedding, you will demand one of equal standing."

Theadosia smirked once more. "I'm not so easily won by gold and pretty dresses." She informed me. "Balien is boring."

"Is he not honourable?"

"Yes, yes, he's honourable and noble and all sorts…" Theadosia sighed, "I'm sure living with him and bearing his children shall be utterly dismal."

How she spoke… with such ice in her voice when talking about her own children. She was truly of the North.

The door opened and in hobbled the proud and honourable Oroville Tyrell.

"Father," I smiled, holding out my arms, "I was worried that you had been away so long."

"Damned Braavosi…" Oroville muttered, "uncivilized swine." His eyes fell on Theadosia, "Forgive me, Your Grace, I did not realize that you had company."

"An ally from the North, Father." I turned towards Theadosia. "My Lady, may I introduce my soon-to-be father, Lord Oroville of House Tyrell, Liege Lord of the Reach."

"A pleasure, My Lord." Lady Theadosia curtsied.

"Such a beauty, Lady…?"

"May I present Lady Theadosia of House Bolton, soon-to-be Wardens of the North."

"I was not aware we had allies in the North…" Oroville looked to me, slightly puzzled.

"Not yet. And that will soon change. The North is the biggest kingdom in the Realm. For too long have they been neglected and forgotten. Soon, we shall embrace them and the Seven Kingdoms shall know peace."

"Which war is that?" Theadosia cocked her head to the side. "The War in the North? Or the War of Dragons?"

"You speak to your King, wench-" Oroville growled.

"It's perfectly alright, father," I chuckled, "Lady Theadosia is of the North. I've found her bold nature quite refreshing." I turned to Oroville. "Regardless, I do not wish to be late to my own wedding. I believe I've kept my Rose waiting long enough."

"Of course, Your Grace." Oroville bowed.

"Your Grace." Lady Theadosia curtsied, and moved out of the room, while Oroville lingered.

"Is something wrong, father?"

"I did not wish to say in front of the Bolton girl…" Oroville checked to see that Lady Theadosia had left the room, "in Braavos… there was an incident."

"An incident?"

"Indeed. Ser Baldinar Baratheon… he was murdered."

I didn't know how to react to this. Rather, I did, but I found it extremely hard not to smile. I had only meant to send him away for a time. But for him to meet his death… how fortuitous. "This is awful… what grave news to receive on the day of my wedding."

"I know, Your Grace." Oroville sighed, "I believe it was the doing of a drunkard sellsword."

"I'm sure the Braavosi City Watch will find the culprit." I nodded. "The Iron Bank received the payment, though?"

"They did, Your Grace. For the first time in living memory, the Crown is not in debt."

"Then we shall endeavour to see things do not change. Father," I wrapped an arm around his shoulders, "I wish for you to accompany Laena, Delyth and I to the Sept tomorrow."

"To the Sept?" Oroville frowned. "Whatever for?"

I found it so hard not to tell him – Gods, I wanted to see his face. "You shall find out later. Now, let us not tarry. I have a wife to marry."

"And I'd rather call no other man son."

 **Delyth Tyrell – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

The wedding was so beautiful. My dress cost twenty thousand gold dragons to stitch and seam. Gods, it was the finest gown I'd ever seen. Gold and white and silver and rose-coloured gems. I was not just a princess as I'd once dreamed of being. I was now Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Aeron had gone to fetch me my wedding present. Gods, he was beautiful. His face must've been carved from marble… those violet eyes that looked into me as if they were full of stars and worlds inside. I hoped my children would have his eyes… like Aelyx the Valiant – he was as beautiful as he was courageous, and was also half Targaryen. I was certain my children would be every bit as noble as their father.

Mother and I had planned the entire wedding. The ornate silver dragonheads entwined in gold rose vines that sat on every table, the hilts of the knives had the same ornate vines winding around them, and the canopy we sat beneath had roses shipped from Highgarden as well as twilight tulips and red lemons from the mountains of Dorne.

On the table beside me, sat my mother and father. Mother was beaming and laughing as the band of minstrels played a merry song. They'd just finished playing _The Knight of Thorns_ , a song my new husband had commissioned in honour of my father. It was one of the few times I'd seen him smile.

On the other table, sat Laena and my own sister, Ashriel. Aeron had told me she was different since Viserys had left. She was dead-eyed, and stared into the distance, with Ser Howland Swann standing by her side. It was so gracious of Aeron to have one of his own Kingsguard to protect Ashriel from any fanatics that may brand her a traitor.

I wondered why she didn't want to talk to me, however. We had been close as children, but now… she didn't even look at me. She just stared out across the Blackwater.

"My Lords," Aeron walked in front of the tables, Ser Mikal following him closely, "My Ladies." He smiled, his voice resonating like a symphony across the gardens. "I want to thank you all for coming to celebrate the joining of House Tyrell and House Targaryen." Everyone applauded my dragon, and I felt my cheeks flush. "I'm glad I was able to bring you sunshine on those blessed day!" Everyone laughed with my beautiful dragon. "But what I gave my wife today is not just a wedding present." Several members of the City Watch rolled a cart with a tarp draped over it. "It is a celebration of our child!"

My mother turned towards me, mouth open in disbelief. She stood up and wrapped her arms around me, smiling and covering her mouth as her eyes began to water. The nobles began to applaud once more and father walked towards Aeron, grabbing his forearm and chuckling lightly as Aeron embraced my father, beaming brightly.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Mother asked me.

"Aeron wanted it to be a surprise…" I chuckled, wiping away a tear with a finger.

Aeron held up a hand to silence the crowds. "Thank you… but now I present my wife with a gift." He grabbed the tarp and pulled it off the wagon, revealing a young boy in rags. Dark black hair, skinny and utterly terrified. "May I present the treasonous Ryleigh of House Baratheon?"

The crowds booed at the traitor, throwing apples and oranges and lemons at the oathbreaker. If it was any other boy, perhaps I would've had some semblance of pity. But not him. Not a traitor to my Dragon, my Kingdom and my unborn child.

"Unlock the cage." Aeron ordered. The guards did so. "Now…" Aeron walked to the side, "our little Lordling looks hungry." He smiled, taking an orange from our table and pelting it at the young buck. The other lords began to join in until the small Ryleigh fell to the floor, curling up into a ball.

 **Ashriel Tyrell – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

Things didn't… work anymore. They didn't make sense. Like a tapestry that didn't have enough wool. Or, like the shards of glass being put back together, and the window it forms is too big to fit in the castle wall. No… not castle wall. Stones… battlements. Battlements?

People were around… lots of people. I recognized one – His wife. Little, dark-haired and doe-eyed. She looked over to me. Why

Wait… Tyrell. That was my name. That was still my name. But… back in the dark, with the rats and the dirt, what good was a name? Did it clothe me from the cold? Did it ward off the rats that picked at my bread? Did it protect me from His visits?

I didn't protest the last time. I didn't struggle. I didn't think he liked that, but I was here in the light now. With music and food. Was I allowed to eat it? I tried to think back to a time before His touch but… no. There couldn't have been a time before that. There were dreams of a man before Him… silver-haired and violet-eyed like Him, but… different. Gentle, if such a thing ever existed.

But no, that could not be true. Everything that happened before… it didn't happen to me. I didn't exist before the Black Cells. I was something different- no… I was still her… but I wasn't quite me yet.

What I would be would be different. I'd be stronger. Strong enough to withstand Him. Strong enough to withstand anything.

The petals of a rose may wither and die, but the thorns never will stop growing strong.

 **Theadosia Bolton – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

Aeron walked over to me, as he always did, in something of a saunter, satisfied with himself. Whenever I saw him, I couldn't help but wonder if he would catch fire. I wanted to shove a spit down his throat and roast him like a hog, just to see his pretty clothes burn.

"You bought your pretty fool a buck." I commented.

"Something to mark our reign." Aeron looked at the boy curling up on the floor. He would've squealed if I flayed him. Would he eventually become numb, his spirit broken when I finished on his chest? Or would he reach a new realm of pain and suffering?

"I plan to leave soon." I informed Aeron. "I have my own wedding to attend."

"Of course, My Lady." Aeron nodded, reaching beneath his doublet and pulling out a key on a string, handing it to me.

"What's this?"

"Just a present." He smiled. "In the cells."

 **Laena Targaryen – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

In the reflection of the gilded cup of wine, I could distinctly make out the scorched side of my face. It filled me with horror, with dread. After Winterfell… maybe I was the monster I looked to be. As if some sick, twisted part of me had finally emerged.

I turned to Ashriel, who still stared out across the Blackwater.

"Ashriel?" I croaked, but she didn't turn to face me. I placed my hand over hers, leaning closer under the watchful eye of Ser Howland Swann. "Ashriel, are you okay?" Once again, Ashriel didn't move She simply remained sitting still, looking at the water. Perhaps she wished she was underneath. Perhaps she was still angry at me for forsaking her to Aeron…

The bastard had become a King, and now had an heir in his wife's belly. Half-Tyrell, half-Targaryen. Just like Aelyx the Valiant. I could see my future… kept under guard in the Red Keep, watching that little prince or princess running around, repeating songs about how their father defeated the oathbreaker Viserys…

But that wasn't what happened. No-one knew how grotesque and awful Aeron really was. That is, no-one but Ashriel and my twin siblings.

Aeron approached me, sipping from his cup of wine. "Sister," he placed his cup on the table, "We haven't spoken since you returned."

"Is there much to say, Your Grace?"

"Only that I thought you'd be pleased to know who else I found at Storm's End." He had a satisfied smirk as he pulled at the cuffs of his doublet. "Have a guess."

"Who?"  
"Guess!" he gave a throaty chuckle, turning to Ashriel with a smile.

"Prin-" I caught myself, "I mean, Lady Haylise?"

"Of course. And her traitorous husband." Aeron turned to Ashriel, leaning in closely and speaking in barely more than a whisper. "I told him if he surrendered, I'd give you your freedom. Then I killed him as he tried to escape." Ashriel's face slowly turned to face Aeron, though she did not change her stone-y expression. It was as if she were a wooden doll. "He and his dragon lie at the bottom of the-"

Aeron quickly stopped talking as he flickered his eyes over to me. I looked to see my fingers had wrapped around the gilded knife, my nails digging into the skin of my palm. Aeron waved a hand to Ser Howland, and straightened up, leaning on the table as he drank from his cup of wine, turning away from me and presenting his neck.

He was toying with me. If I tried to strike, I'd be cut down… and if I didn't, he'd know I was a coward. But I had already betrayed Ashriel. I was already a coward.

I released the knife and my hand slid back down onto my lap. Aeron finished his wine, putting his goblet on the table as he shook his head.

"You're a coward Laena. You always were. But hold a knife like that again, and you'll join your brothers."

 **Mikko – The Drowned Town, Braavos**

I had bought turtle stew from downstairs with the coins Helesa had given me. It looked strange… baby turtles bobbing up and down in the blue-green liquid. A half-loaf of bread under my arm, I opened the door, and nearly dropped the bowls of stew onto the floor.

Sitting up on the bed, arms supporting him, was Finn Snow, pale-faced drowsy, though his eyes were wide and set on his wolfshead knife on the table. Helesa crouched in front of him, a hand on his knee as she tried to look in his eyes.

"…then he brought you here…" Helesa looked over to me. "He's awake."

"I see." I stated, setting the stew down on the table and walking over to Finn Snow. Back in the Khalasar, they would've called Helesa's medicines witchcraft. "Is that still you, Finn Snow?"

"I'm not quite sure." Finn said quietly, his eyes looking up to me. "He stabbed me. Hilario. Belos left me for…" he turned away from me, his throat catching. "They left me for dead."

"No," Helesa looked towards me, confused, "no, they wouldn't do that…"

"They said I have a killer's heart. That I'll destroy Braavos…" Finn's hands gripped the wooden frame of the bed. It saddened me greatly to say this, but it was true. Finn Snow was a killer. A villain. A scoundrel. "I thought they'd killed me…"

"A simple mix of tonics." Helesa stated. "The blade was covered in Manticore Venom. But sorcery thickened the poison – delayed the effects."

"Why?" Finn looked up at her. "Why would they do that?"

"I don't know… maybe they wanted you to know-"

"He's not asking about the witchcraft." I informed Helesa. I knew that look Finn Snow had on his face. Confusion, disgust, and great sorrow. When I had refused to pillage and plunder with my Khalasar, my braid had been cut. I had been left behind while they travelled on. I knew what it felt like to be betrayed. And I knew what could stop him being a mindless killer.

"Helesa," I said quietly, "give us time."

Helesa looked back to Finn, furrowing her brow. She kissed him gently on the forehead and stood up. "I'll find you a new shirt…" She muttered before exiting the room. I picked up a chair and sat down opposite Finn Snow.

"You were betrayed. But you survived."

"But if I hadn't…"

"But you did. Finn…" I stroked my beard, trying to find the words, "how many men have you killed?" Finn was silent. "Have you even stopped to count?" Finn clenched his jaw. "You have tried to overcome every problem you encountered with the edge of a blade. You never even seemed to care about this."

"Alright, Mikko," Finn exhaled, "I know."

"Finn Snow…" I sighed, "I left you at the Iron Bank because I've killed men before. In anger, for gold, for women… it changes you. You are so young… if you kill men, you must kill for a purpose."

"I thought I did…"

"Something beyond greed and riches. Because I have stood by you, I have fought for you, I have saved you from death. I will continue to do so if you are worthy of fighting for. But if you stay your course, you will find that you walk it alone." Finn nodded. "Have I been unfair to you?"

"No." Finn said finally. "No, you haven't." Finn hung his head.

"So… what do we do about Belos and Hilario?"

I eyed Finn carefully, watching his eyes move across the floor carefully as he stroked the stubble that lined his jaw. It filled me with sadness, but also a flicker of hope: this was the most Finn had ever thought about killing someone.

"This isn't over."

"Are you sure?"

"They tried to kill me, Mikko. My friends – the first friends I had since I left home. What do you think they'll do to me when they find out I survived?"

It was true. They may try to kill Finn Snow again. And justice required them to die for attempting to murder him, no matter their motive.

"This is the last time." I informed him. "Swear this to me. Swear we will only kill for a greater cause."

"I swear. After this… I'll never be a sellsword again."

I nodded. Finn was a man of his word, I knew that much. It was the small part of honour he boasted of. I held out a forearm. "Then let us find the traitors."

Finn gripped my forearm.

 **Theadosia Bolton – The Black Cells, The Red Keep, King's Landing, Braavos**

I opened the cellar door, entering the Black Dungeons. It was so different to the Dreadfort: full of grotesque contraptions and tools. Incompetent fools… Raff and I were the tools. We didn't need any contraptions… just our blades.

And our blades were sharp.

I came to the door Aeron had told me about, and fitted the key in the slot, twisting it around with a heavy clunk, then another before I pulled it back. The torchlight illuminated the small creature that was chained to the wall, still letting out little roars and growls as it tried to lunge at me.

Dark hair, dark eyes… I recognized the boy. The youngest Stark boy…

A smile crept up on my face. Not because I had a chance of avenging my family, and not because I hated the Starks… I just loved how wild this little wolf was. How much he would struggle against me. That was the most satisfying part… watching that moment when hope flees their eyes. Watching them react as I explored their body… I was flipping a coin. On one side, there was pain and torment, on the other, pleasure and euphoria. I'd mingle the two together until they didn't know which was which.

His dark little eyes… I wanted to cut out the iris of his eye and place it in a small box, if only to look at it without his incessant blinking. The same tone as mine, only infinitely darker.

"Lord Stark." I curtsied, lifting up my dress and pulling my flaying blade out of the sheathe on my thigh. "I'm sure we'll come to be great friends. But first," I moved towards his little body, bending over to cut his shirt open, "let's see if the North is _really_ in your blood…"

 **So… another plot twist. Please leave a review saying what you thought. One of the more dull weddings… a bit of a red-herring for all of you.**

 **Please leave a review – another massive thank you to all of you, and the next chapter is on Dragonstone as well as in King's Landing and is titled '** _ **The Claws of Rats**_ **'.**


	26. The Claws of Rats

**Hey guys! Let me first apologise for the long wait – my last deadline is in 3 weeks, and then I've finished my degree so updates will be slow until then. Enjoy this lengthy chapter though! (nearly 4,000 words) There's also a casting call at the bottom.**

 **Visenya Targaryen – Dragonstone, The Crownlands**

I walked into the long hallway, my eyes darting around, searching for Viserys. The storm raged outside as thunder rumbled and lightning crackled, splitting the clouds apart. All the dogs on the isle howled at the rain from the tempest that crashed against the rocks.

Inside the long hall, illuminated by faint and early sunlight, I found him. He was completely bare, staring up at the tapestry behind the throne. It was only now, when I looked at his body, that I saw the injuries. The clawed marks across his shoulders, the seared skin on his left arm, a chunk of skin and bone missing from his collar.

"Viserys?" I walked down across the throne room, pulling off my cloak and wrapping it around his shoulders. "I've been looking for you anywhere. I've half the houseguard searching the entire keep-"

"I just wanted to see it again…" Viserys looked to me, eyes large like when he told mother my antics were his idea. Mother could never stay angry with him.

I looked up to the tapestry of our family. Our father sat in the stone throne, as mother stood next to him, one hand on his shoulder, and the other around Laena. Laena… the tapestry was made before that maid burned the bed with Laena in it… She used to be pretty. With violet eyes and waves of silver-gold hair winding down to the small of her back. I'd almost forgotten how soft and pale her skin used to be… she couldn't have been older than fourteen there.

I stood beside Laena, already half a head taller than she was. I was barely a woman, but my body had already begun to grow more than Laena's. My own hair was closer to mother's; a pale gold tone.

On the other side of father, stood Draegor, who was dressed in his dragon armour, clutching Blackfyre. His hair was shorter, and his violet eyes blazed brightly, full of confidence and energy. He had always been so quick to act. I always admired that. It may have been foolish of him, but it was courageous none-the-less.

Beside Draegor was Viserys. His hair was shorter, his face was rounder, and he was nowhere near as tall or muscular as he was now, but it was still distinctly him. The sharp chin and high cheekbones, Viserys hadn't changed as much as he liked to think. In his hands, he clutched the hilt of Dark Sister, a blade that was then still too big for him, that the hilt stood beside his face.

And behind the throne, somewhat obscured, but still the closest to our father, was Aeron. The tapestry was made to commemorate his legitimization. His hair was cropped short, like father's, his dark and deep violet eyes stared with all the noble and virtuous likeness of a true Targaryen. It was strange to think that I loved him once. More than any other Targaryen, save our father. He was a Bastard before this tapestry – a Stone from the Vale. But he had seemed to be gracious and never presumed to be one of us.

I could still remember when Aeron arrived in the Crownlands. For weeks, Draegor was wary of him, as was Laena (doubtless, because of our mother's warnings), but I never felt threatened by him. He felt like an outsider to his own kin. I suppose that, at the heart of it, I felt sorry for him.

What a fool I was.

"Why did father love him so?" Viserys pondered aloud.

"I suppose because he grew up without riches." I stated. "By the time he was royalty, he was only six-and-ten. He always appreciated it more. He never expected it."

"Neither did I."

"You're not a typical king, brother." I countered. Viserys moved to sit down in the throne, my cloak still wrapped around him. His hand crept out of the cloak and began to pick at the stone handle.

"It still sounds so strange." Viserys muttered, "So foreign."

I nodded, my eyes still fixed on the tapestry. "We're the only two left…" I turned to Viserys, "the last true Targaryens."

"Laena betrayed us." Viserys growled. I paused: how do I begin to ask him about it? About what he witnessed?

"Viserys… in Storm's End… how much can you remember?"

Viserys' eyes drifted away to the windows, watching the fading storm, "Bits. Flashes… I remember Aeron and his dragon. The Stark girl… Haylise…" Viserys' eyes screwed shut. As if there was some pain inside him that would not rest.

"She's your wife. It's only natural for you to mourn her."

Viserys nodded. "It's strange. With all that's happened… we never really learnt what it meant to be married."

I recalled Viserys' long pining looks at Ashriel Tyrell, Laena's favoured handmaiden. She returned these glances, but I doubt Viserys noticed. Viserys the Bold… it seemed he could be just as blind as Draegor. As soon as I thought about our late brother, my throat caught. I wished I had known him more. Back when he was himself – before that wretched fight…

"I heard some of the men refer to you as Queen." Viserys stated suddenly. I hadn't even thought about how he would feel about this. With all the treachery that had befallen our family… we needed to trust each other.

"Viserys, I thought you were dead…"

"You did the right thing. This war cannot end with me." Viserys' fist began to clench as we turned to walk to the war room. "We need to plan our assault on King's Landing."

"Viserys, I told you-"

"I will not stand meekly by and allow Aeron to destroy our kingdoms!"

"We need to be smart about this. Aeron knows you – he's prepared for an attack…"

"He killed Haylise, Visenya! My wife! He has our sister, he killed our brother, he has-" Viserys caught himself as he bit his lip, walking to the table and resting a hand on the wooden isle of Dragonstone. "We need allies."

I nodded. "Corlys Velaryon has brought the fleet from Driftmark. We could attack from the Blackwater…"

"It's not enough. We need to attack King's Landing on all fronts. The Stormlands are gone," Viserys grabbed the wooden antlers off the table and threw them on the floor, "which means we have the Velaryon fleet and a smattering of Stormlanders."

"And a dragon." I reminded him.

"Against Helyax and Daenys." Viserys flicked his tongue across his teeth, his brow furrowed.

"Corlys said I should seek marriage. Perhaps with Markas Stark."

"The Starks won't help us," Viserys shook his head. "They're embroiled with their own war. They'll never follow a Southern King into battle…"

"Bennard Stark did."

"And he was ostracized for the remainder of his life. The Northmen are too stubborn-"

"We don't need them to follow us. We just need to unleash them on Aeron. The North is the biggest kingdom…"

"And the poorest." Viserys pointed towards the Vale. "Aeron may be a Targaryen by law, but he was a Stone. He came from the Fingers. No doubt the Arryns will support his claim."

"Not necessarily," I moved around, holding the wooden falcons in the Vale, "Aeron's claim lies solely on the lie of you being a traitor. Not all support his claim – to some, he is still considered a bastard. You are Rhaegon's last trueborn son. The Arryns pride themselves on honour; if they knew Aeron was a kinslayer, they'd never follow him." I pointed across the table to the Riverlands, "Our ancestor Aegon supported the Tully's in reclaiming their land from House Hoare. They'll answer the call."

"And the others?" Viserys flickered his eyes across the rest of the table.

"Delyth is married to Aeron. From what I saw, she'd never turn on him."

"And Lucian Lannister has been appointed his Hand. The Westerlands and the Reach will never turn from his side. Not to mention the Crownlands and the Royal Army…"

"The Rivermen will bolster our infantry. The Knights of the Vale will be our cavalry. And if we can convince the Northmen to fight with us-"

"No, they're not a priority." Viserys shook his head once more. "The Riverlands and the Vale are united. If we're to attack King's Landing we'll need their armies. Call Sunfyre and ride for Riverrun. I'll set sail for the Eyrie."

The door knocked, and in entered Corlys.

"Your Grace… Viserys…" Corlys immediately dropped onto a knee, "Forgive me, Your Grace, I didn't know you were…" Corlys' eyes stayed fixed on the ground, as Viserys pulled the cloak tighter around his naked body. I cleared my throat.

"Lord Velaryon?"

"A… a raven has come for you, Your Grace." He handed me a small ravenscroll. I began to unroll it, flickering my eyes across the scrawled threats. My face must have betrayed me, as I tried to remain strong. Only Viserys could see through this.

"It's from him. Isn't it?" I nodded. "What does it say?"

"He's just trying to intimidate-"

"Read it."

I took a breath, trying to make sure my voice would stay firm as I read the scroll aloud.

 _To my Traitorous Whore Sister,_

 _Your Sister stands against you. Bend the knee, or I will take your head, Whore._

 _I will raze your home to the ground as I did to the Oathbreakers and Conspirators Baratheon and Stark. I will rip open your feeble pet as I did it's twin, Moonfyre. Your Kinslayer of a Brother lies at the bottom of the sea with her._

 _Yield Dragonstone, Whore, or I will take your head. Bend the knee, Whore, or my Kingsguard will take turns with you as they did your Whore of a Mother. I will let you live in Exile._

 _Aeron Targaryen, First of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, King of the Andals and the First Men and Protector of the Realm._

Viserys' hand balled into a fist that rested upon the table as he looked up at me. "He thinks he's killed you." I informed him.

"Then he's sorely mistaken…" Viserys growled. "I'll show him otherwise-"

"Viserys, now is not the time for boldness. He thinks you've fallen – we can use this to our advantage."

"Speak sense."

"He thinks I'm the only threat. If I can persuade the Rivermen to join us…"

"He'll focus his attack on you." Corlys finished my thought. "Your Grace, if you go to the Vale, he'll be too blinded by Visenya to pay attention to anything else."

Viserys opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by a screech. No, not a screech – a deafening roar. Like a storm had arrived that would've shaken the very island we stood upon. Viserys and I turned to see what great monsterous beast had arrived, and saw a sight. Something I hadn't given any thought to…

The large, old dragon ripped through the clouds. Bright scarlet scales shining like rubies, glistening in the emerging sun, his horns and spikes gold and speckled. The fearsome beast my brother had named 'the Firebolt' had swept down to land on the island, letting out another colossal rumble.

"Broxagon…" I muttered with a smile.

 **Julian – Street of Steel, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

I wiped the sweat from my brow with the back of my wrist before hammering the steel again. Embers sparked and flew from the hammer, and I heard that hiss as I dunked the blade in the water. I pulled the blade out with my tongs, examining the dark steel. It was a fine blade, and would match well with Ser Kiran Hightower's dagger. I walked over to grab the rag from the knife to polish it, only to find the dagger had disappeared from the counter. I looked down, trying to find the hilt I'd carved into his banner's tower, or the flame-shaped garnet I'd set in the pommel. Yet, I found no trace of it.

"Roto," I called up the stairs, "drag your arse out of bed, or Riler'll give you a clout 'round the ear!" There was no response, "Riler! I can't find Ser Kiran's dagger!" I called again, waiting to hear if him groan from his slumber and fall to his feet. Yet, the only sounds came from the blacksmith's hammering in the shops next to us, and the hiss of the forge. "For fuck's sake…" I dropped my tongs onto the anvil and walked to the door, looking around for one of the kids.

I found one boy – a dark-haired runt covered in muck. Skinny and long-haired. "Boy, what's your name?"

"Mor'in."

"Mortin?" I glanced around the street , "Mind the shop for a minute and I'll give you a bowl of brown."

The boy leapt to his feet, "yesser, many thanksser!" I couldn't help but grin as I watched the boy bound into the store, looking at the blades.

"Oi, just look, you hear? Don't touch nothing."

"Yesser."

I pointed him to the stool behind the counter and walked up the stairs, ready to drag Roto from his bed. However, as I opened the door, I found his sheets stripped back. "Fucking typical…" I muttered, shaking my head – he must've been with Lysaline once again. Still, he always tended to be back by now – though he was irresponsible, he wasn't stupid – he knew we relied upon the forge, and this was usually the busiest time for us.

I muttered darkly to myself and walked back down the stairs, wiping my mired hands on my apron as I moved to the back of the shop, opening the pot of brown and ladling a bowl for Mortin. Strange – a lot of the bread was gone. Probably Riler again. He usually ate more if he knew he would be out for the entire day; said it saved him some coins. I took half of the remaining bread and walked back to the boy, setting it down in front of him before walking back to find him some water.

"How old are you Mortin?" I asked him.

"Nine, ser."

"Orphan?"

"Yesser."

I dawdled my way to the doorway, looking around boredly. Usually I had too little time to smith with all the custom we had. Today, however, I'd only had one patron. I ran a finger through my beard before turning back to Mortin. "It's quiet today."

"Yesser," Mortin said between slurping the brown and chewing the bread, "everyone's at the Great Sept of Baeor…"

"Baelor." I corrected him.

"Yesser. The King an' Queen's there today!"

"Bully for them." I scratched my eyebrow.

And that's where it struck me.

Perhaps I was being stupid. Too swept up in a daydream. Roto wasn't that stupid – I was just imaging the worst nightmare possible. But there's a feeling in the back of your head, a sense of dread, when you try to tell yourself a lie but you know in your water that the worst has happened.

The dagger was gone. Roto was gone. He'd slept here last night and had breakfast. And Aeron Targaryen and Delyth Tyrell were at the Great Sept of Baelor now.

"Mind the shop!" I shouted at Mortin, stripping off my apron and running down the Street of Steel.

 **Delyth Tyrell – The Great Sept of Baelor, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

We exited the Great Sept of Baelor. We hadn't been here since our wedding, but Aeron insisted on having the High Septon make an offering to the Mother to bless our child. I hoped it would be a boy – Maester Sterlan said that, from the way I was carrying, it was to be a girl. Kings often grew upset at having girls, but Aeron's eyes swirled with joy as he began talking about what to name our daughter. Aeron's favourite so far was Aeyla; a name that my own mother had suggested. After all, she would be a Targaryen – she would need a name for a dragon.

I still held out hope for a son. I liked the name Rhaelor, after Aeron's father. When I suggested this to Aeron, asking whether he would prefer a son, he simply stated that he just wanted a healthy child with me.

We left the Sept, stepping into the sunlight and watching the crowds cheer for us. They'd never have cheered like this for Draegor, or for Viserys now they knew him for treason. Only my sweet Dragon, the noble King of the Seven Kingdoms.

Beside us, stood Ser Mikal Drake, whose red hair slipped out from underneath his steel helm. He kept one hand on the hilt of his longsword, and the other hanging beside his axe. He scared me, with his unnatural eyes and that awfully grotesque scar beneath his helm, but my husband had assured me he was a loyal man that he trusted with his life. And if my husband trusted him, I did too.

Besides, Ser Mikal had never wronged me. He was a silent storm, ready to unleash against any foes who wished us harm.

"Aeron?" I asked him, waving to the crowds.

"Yes, my Rose?"

"If we have a son, I want to name him Rhaelor." Aeron turned to me, his brow furrowed. "After your father." I explained.

"Thank you, Delyth." He smiled, interlocking his fingers in mine.

"Would you prefer a son? To our daughter, I mean?"

Aeron chuckled and wrapped his arm around my waist, "I just want our child to be healthy and happy with me and you." Aeron's other hand cupped my cheek gently as he pressed his lips against me. My legs started to fold from the feeling of his arms around me once more. In that moment, I felt as though nothing could touch us. Not the vile rumours about Aeron, not the oathbreaker Viserys, not the whore Theadosia Bolton… no one.

And then screams struck across the streets. Beside Aeron, Ser Howland Swann fell to the ground, clasping his side, where the hilt of a knife protruded. Ser Mikal swept in front of us, drawing his sword and his axe as he ordered Aeron and I back to the Great Sept.

Numbers of people began to run towards us. Twenty men and women, all shouting and screaming as others began to flee. Aeron moved back with me, shouting for guards. I screamed and yelped, pointing at the figure behind him. A golden-haired boy armed with a short sword. Aeron gripped the hilt of his ancestral sword, drawing it and rushing forwards towards the man.

I wanted him to stay. I didn't want him to go near any of those awful rats. But he was my Dragon. If he hadn't have gone, maybe he wouldn't have been the man I loved. Aeron moved back and forth, batting away the sword of the man and swiping at his legs. But my gaze was pulled away from him.

A man began to advance on me. He held a small blade, the scarlet garnet catching the sunlight as he approached me: muddy brown hair and a sharp, pointed face. His face… so full of hate, anger. Like he was not a man at all. He was so full of rage.

He ran towards me, knife raised, and before I could close my eyes and scream, he stumbled and fell to the floor, the handle of an axe buried in his shoulder. Ser Mikal sprinted up the steps, slicing through one of the assassin's blades and grabbing him by the throat. He was like the Warrior incarnated in the fire of war. He plunged his sword deep into a woman before snapping the man's neck.

Ser Mikal grabbed the hair of Aeron's attacker, pulling back his head as Aeron swiped his blade across his neck. Blood spurted out, and Ser Mikal dropped the man to the floor. The remaining Kingsguard formed a line around Aeron and I, batting their swords at the traitors as the City Watch began to arrive.

And then a screech shook the sky. I looked up to see the purple she-beast plummet down from the sky, splintering the cobbled stones with her tail cutting through a rooftop like a knife through butter. Aeron's mount, Daenys. She shrieked and breathed a jet of fire amongst the dead and dying, standing in front of the Kingsguard. Ser Mikal made his way to my attacker, who still writhed on the ground.

"No," Aeron, my dragon, ordered Ser Mikal, wiping the blood from his face as he walked around to me, "Delyth, are you okay?"

"I think so… Ser Mikal saved me."

Ser Mikal just grunted and nodded at me. Aeron turned to him, "Lord Commander… you've proven yourself the most loyal Knight in the Seven Kingdoms."

Ser Mikal grunted again. "What about this one?" Ser Mikal rested a foot on his axe, making the would-be-assassin scream.

"Have his wounds tended to, and lock him in the cells. Interrogate him personally as to who was involved in this. And then Daenys may devour him. No," Aeron grabbed Ser Mikal's shoulder, "I have a better idea." Aeron turned to me, "Each and every man, high-born or low, guilty or innocent, deserves a trial. Including rats like this." Ser Mikal tore off a part of the man's shirt, offering it to Aeron, who took it to wipe down Blackfyre before bending down to pick up the bejewelled knife. "What's your name, assassin?"

"Rot in each of the seven 'ells-" His words turned to screams as Aeron gripped the axe, twisting it in the man's back.

"Your name."

"Roto."

"Son of…?"

"My father's not-" Aeron began to twist the axe again, and Roto screamed until he fell silent, his eyes flickering shut.

"Ser Mikal, escort him to the City Watch. He's not to die!" Aeron walked over to me, his blood-stained hand cupping my face, "Not yet."

 **So guys, I need some Tully's and Arryn's. Also, if someone wants to try and make Aeron's mother, Lady Baelish, they're welcome to do so. I also plan on there being at least two Arryn daughters (mainly because I said that in** _ **aCoB**_ **), but I obviously need at least one son too.**

 **So, someone wanted to create this character, but they've taken a bit too long, so I'm opening it back up to anyone – the Dornishman. A character that I suspect will be a fan favourite… please PM me about making this character!**

 **Anyway, I don't know when I'll be writing the next chapter. I mean, I finish my degree in 3 weeks so, I'll probably be uploading it sometime before then… I hope so, anyway. Please leave a review, send in a character… you know the drill. The next chapter is back in Braavos (But also features Riverrun), and is aptly named '** _ **The Smiling Reaper**_ **'.**

 **R.**

 **p.s. Sorry if this seems a little sub-par. In hindsight, I could build it up a bit, but I kinda want to give you guys something to read and hold you over until the next update. I'll try and post again within the week. Only 4 more chapters left!**


	27. The Cursed and the Reaper

**So, here's a lil' update to tide you guys over. Took a while to write… mainly because I've been working on my dissertation.**

 **Some Karstarks could be fun… Remember to keep those characters coming in. Also, the Dornishman I requested is of upmost importance. I'd prefer to receive him today/tomorrow so I can start this new plotline ASAP.**

 **Hilario Baharis – The Drowned Town, Braavos**

Killer. Traitor. Murderer. All of these names… I was all of them. R'hllor curse me, I had betrayed Finn Snow. But, if I hadn't, I would've been betraying Braavos. My home. If this was hell, Finn was a demon. And killing a demon… that made me a servant of the Lord of Light.

But it still sat uncomfortably with me. After all… the reason I killed Finn was because I knew killing needlessly and callously was wrong. But he was still a man. I had to make amends. The only way I could stop myself from turning into someone just as wretched was to find _her_. Apologise… tell her.

I went to rub my head, only to hit myself with the neck of my bottle. I let out a snigger before I careened forwards once more, yawning. Somehow, I ended up on the floor. Cursing in Valeryian, I raised myself back up to my feet, singing the song that Finn had taught me many years back. I got a few seconds in before realizing I'd dropped my small throwing-knives. Somewhere… I think.

I stumbled through a doorway to a winesink, looking around at the other patrons. " _Valar Morghulis_ ," I slurred, dipping into a bow before I sauntered to the bar. A pretty little thing stood behind the bar; Dressed in a yellow gown, light and thin, low-cut and sticking to her clammy skin. I wiped my eyes, pushing back my chestnut curls.

"Good-den, Ser," she smiled.

"To you as well," I pasted on a wide grin, unbuckling my scabbard and placing it on the bar. "Do you work at this fine establishment?"

"I do, Ser."

"Well, I…" I tried to remember what I came in here for… "I'm… where am I?"

" _The Princess_ , Ser."

Why did that sound familiar… "I've been here before!"

"Yes, Ser." She placed a small glass with red swill in front of me.

"For me?" I giggled, "You're awfully kind."

"To your health, Ser."

"Health…" I chuckled, "we're all healthy until we find a poisoned blade in our gut…" I knocked back the drink. And…

 **Cecilia Tully – Riverrun, The Riverlands**

"Lycella," I halted the serving girl, "is the Hall ready?"

"Yes, m'Lady. I was just headed to the kitchen."

"Good. And have them bring a barrel of Arbor gold. No, wait…" I held her arm, thinking carefully. "Yes, Arbor gold – and a barrel of Arbor red. Take your sister with you- Ceri!" I called at the taller, blonde girl. "Your sister has a job for you."

"At once m'Lady." Lycella curtsied and scurried away to the kitchens.

I looked out through the open window, pulling my eyes across the clouds in search for one of those infamous dragons. Many other kingdoms feared the dragons, seeing them as beasts of rage and death. But the Riverfolk knew what they really were. They were the weapons of Targaryens. And the Targaryens promised prosperity to their allies and fury to their foes.

"Lady Cecilia," Ser Florian Hightower entered. He was still very young, twenty-and-five and clad in steel plate armour. He had only been in Riverrun for the past year, serving as our Castellan after the death of Ser Runcan Whent. Sinuous curls of light brown hair, and almond-shaped amber eyes.

"Ser Florian," I bowed my head, "I expect the guard is ready?"

"Yes, My Lady," Ser Florian kept a hand on the pommel of his sword. "Lord Bryce will return presently…"

"Yes, he will." At the door, entered my husband. Half-a-head taller than I, small sea-blue eyes. He pulled his gloves off, running a hand through his wet auburn hair. Or, rather, what little of it remained. "Ser Florian." He nodded.

"Lord Tully," Ser Florian bowed his head. "I expected the hunt to last a while longer…"

"Duty takes precedence over game," Bryce walked up to me, pecking me on the cheek and putting an arm around my shoulder. "All is to plan?"

"Yes, husband," I assured him. "The Targaryens will arrive soon."

"I'll need to change then." Bryce smiled, removing his arm from my waist. "Brandon!" He called.

And in entered Brandon Rivers. The Bastard of Riverrun. He favoured his father, rather than his mother; he had his father's auburn hair and fair skin, and though his eyes shared the same sea-kissed colour, his eyes were larger, and his cheeks were speckled with freckles. Brandon knelt down to his eye-level, "We're seeing someone very important. I want you to go back to your chambers with Ser Florian, and change out of these mired clothes. Okay?" Brandon nodded, and Bryce kissed him on the top of his head, tapping the back of his shoulder.

"Brandon, make sure you comb your hair," I put a hand on his auburn curls, "I'll know if you didn't." He gave me a smile and walked away with Ser Florian.

I looked around, making sure none of the servants were around to hear. "You're planning on presenting him to the Targaryens?"

"He's a member of this household." Bryce nodded, turning back to me. "Does this displease you?"

In truth, I would have insisted Bryce present Brandon if he hadn't intended to. But, to hear that Bryce never consulted me about it… "He may not have my blood, but he's my son as well. He's a good boy – I'd never hide him away."

Bryce walked up to me, wrapping his arms around my waist. "How did I come to wed the most beautiful, kindest woman in Westeros?"

I smiled, though I couldn't look at Bryce. We had only wed because Orwen Blackwood, the man I was betrothed to, died fighting against the Ironborn Raids twenty-and-two years ago. Our families returned to their feuds, and my father managed to negotiate a marriage to the new Lord Tully: Bryce.

You never stop loving someone. When they die, that piece of you that loves them doesn't die as well, though it feels like it. You never stop feeling how much of the world that has gone with them.

"I'll get Mellie ready." I replied.

"Also," Bryce leant on the table, "I want your opinion."

"On?"

"Brandon." Bryce stroked his jaw. "Mellie cannot further our line. And we are a Great House…"

"What does this have to do with Brandon? He's a Rivers." I stated.

"He is. But… when Viserys is king by right." Bryce stood up. "I believe that he may…"

My eyes widened as I realized what he was saying. "You'd give him a true name? You'd place him above our daughter?"

"He's my son. The law clearly states…"

"He's a bastard, Bryce! The law states that he shall inherit nothing!" I hissed. "I have swaddled that boy. Clothed him, fed him. He is my son just as much as he is yours, but he is a Rivers. Calling him Tully won't change the fact that he has the blood of a scullery maid in him!"

Bryce replied by shaking his head, pulling out the ravenscroll. "I believe that we have a larger concern. They'll arrive before the sun starts to fall." Bryce walked back to me, placing his hands on my arms. "He may be natural-born-"

"Bastard." I corrected him with a mumble

"-But he is my only son." Bryce sighed. "He has my blood. And that will never change."

I pulled my arms from Bryce's grip, "As if I could forget." I replied. "Now, I have to attend to _our_ daughter. Your heir." And with that, I left the Hall to find Mellie.

 **Mikko –** _ **The Princess**_ **, The Drowned Town, Braavos**

I'd never believed in Gods. Not Helesa's Lord of Light, not Finn's Old Gods, not even _Vezhof_ , the Great Stallion. I followed my khalasar's customs, but I never truly held the belief inside of me. But, there must have been something that watched over Finn. Luck, the Gods, or perhaps the demons that dwelled inside Finn had brought him a gift. For slumped over the counter, fingers wrapped around a green bottle of spiced rum, was Hilario Baharis. His killer.

He was dressed in mint-green gambeson, his brown curls slick with grease and oil and sweat. His other hand lay over the small leather scabbard, the thin wisps of steel and silver growing from inside the sheathe and twisting around the hilt like a series of vines.

I walked back from ushering the patrons out of the winesink. "Has he said anything yet?" Finn looked to Helesa. "What?"

"He keeps saying her name." Finn said quietly, turning his wolfshead knife over in his hands.

"Helesa?" I asked.

"I don't know," Helesa walked over to Hilario, lifting his snoring head up off the table, "he could be dreaming." I noticed Finn's hand clench around the hilt of his knife. "So, what do we do with him?"

"What do you think?" Finn murmured quietly.

"What…" Helesa looked between Finn and I, "you can't be serious Finn. You can't kill him…"

"He tried to kill me."

"It's Hilario!"

"Aye, and he stabbed me himself!"

"Well- maybe Belos was making him do it. Maybe he was playing along – maybe he has his reasons for it!"

There was a silence as Helesa looked back to Hilario, a hand gently stroking his chestnut curls. Finn didn't move from the table he sat on, nor did he sheathe his knife. But eventually, he lifted his head up to face us both.

"He said I had a killer's heart." Helesa turned back to Finn. "He said he wouldn't let me destroy Braavos, and then he left me for dead."

"Just listen to him, Finn. You owe him that much."

Finn's finger tapped against the blade of his knife as he eyed the slumbering Hilario. He then walked around to him, blade still drawn as his dark, empty eyes stared down at the unconscious man, wondering. A hand stretched out, and he grabbed Hilario's scabbard. He sheathed his knife and pulled Hilario's dagger out of its sheathe. Finn walked back to me, handing me the dagger while looking at Helesa.

"When he stirs, bring him outside."

 **Helesa Irinos –** _ **The Princess**_ **, The Drowned Town, Braavos**

It took Hilario the better part of an hour to come to. His eyes were swimming as he groaned, catching sight of me and rubbing his temples.

"Helesa," he spoke in a grumble of pained Valeryian, "I've been trying to find you."

"I know," Hilario's brow furrowed. "You talk a lot in your sleep," I explained.

"Finn…" Hilario's face began to break, raising the bottle to his lips once more, "he's dead, Helesa." Hilario let out a sob, pressing the palm of his hand to his eye, "I killed him. I… Belos said it was for the best… to save Braavos. He said we'd be heroes."

"Heroes don't kill their friends," I stated.

"I know," Hilario sniffled, "maybe he would've listened. Maybe we could've…. Sent him away. Back to Westeros," Hilario took a quivering breath, before turning to face me "I murdered him."

"No, you didn't," I walked towards him.

"Belos coated a blade in Manticore Venom, and I stabbed him with it. We took the egg… we left him to die in the vaults of the Iron Bank."

"But he didn't die."

Mikko stepped forwards, out of the shadows, his arakh clasped in one hand as the other lay on the hilt of one of his many knives sheathed around his waist. Hilario turned around to see him, and for a moment, no-one moved. Hilario swayed gently on his stool, and Mikko's grip tightened around the hilt of his knife. Hilario glanced down at his belt, seeing his knife was, indeed, gone. His hand crept along the bar searching for the hilt of his blade. But when he turned back to look, he found that his rapier had too gone missing.

"Outside," Mikko grunted, jerking his head to the door. Hilario looked to me, but I couldn't meet his gaze. I kept my eyes on the floor. It's hard to say what it was. Maybe it was shame that kept me from looking at him. Not my shame. His. The shame of a traitor who I called friend.

Hilario stood up, and Mikko followed, blade first, directing Hilario like a rudder directs a ship, and I trailed after them until we came outside into the setting sunlight. The last time the four of us had been here, Finn left to kill the Shadowborn. Now… it was another being sent to their death.

But Hilario didn't know who would wield the blade.

Outside, sat on one of the barrels, was Finn, with Hilario's scabbard buckled at his waist.

"Finn?" Hilario looked from me back to Finn. "Finn, is that you?"

Hilario's emerald eyes were filled with something new – hope. Happiness. No longer hollow and dulled, but filled to bursting with joy and surprise. Finn's dark eyes were as cold as his name. And just as lifeless as he examined Hilario with pure indifference.

"Snow…" Hilario let out a short chuckle as Finn walked towards us, "I don't know what I can say…" Finn's sword-hand clenched to the point where his arm began to shake. His sharp, pointed jaw tightened. "Belos… it was Belos' idea…"

"That traitorous rat means nothing to me." Finn spoke curtly.

"That traitorous rat?" Hilario took a step forwards, only to be held back by Mikko. "That traitorous rat took me in when no-one else would. Like he did with you. He's my family-" He took a step forwards, spit flinging from his teeth. "Where's your family, Finn Snow? On the other side of the fucking world-"

"Quiet." Mikko forced Hilario onto his knees, making sure he could not rise. I focused on Finn, his nostrils flared as his fist moved closer to the hilt of his knife. Finn leant down, grabbing Hilario's gambeson in his shield hand as he kept his voice in a snarl.

"Where's the egg?" Finn glowered at him. "Where's my prize?" Finn's voice began to rise.

"It hatched, Snow."

Finn pulled up Hilario by his gambeson. "You're lying."

"No." Hilario shook his head, his voice steady and his hands stretched out, open. "No, I'm not."

Finn's sword-hand relaxed for a moment, open and pale and white. And then, he threw his fist into Hilario's face, over and over again.

"Finn!" I dashed forwards to pull him away from Hilario.

"You damned fucking rogue, Hilario!" Blood spurted across Finn's face as he punched with every word he bellowed. I came between them, trying to talk gently and calm Finn down, but his eyes stayed fixed on Hilario as he paced from side to side, seething and smudging the speckles of blood across his cheek. His hair hung down beside his face as he spat out into the water.

"This is why we did it." Hilario groaned, one of his teeth falling out of his mouth. "You're a villain, Snow."

"You tried to kill me!"

Hilario nodded, his eyes looking down at the drops of his blood splashing against them, coupled with the gentle drizzle of rain. "I did. I didn't do it for myself."

"Fucking hell…" Finn let out a small chuckle, "this is my reward for believing we can make our own fortune? For believing that a knave like you could use his fucking head every once in a while?"

"I chose to help people!" Hilario spoke. "It was a choice between killing you, or watching you kill more. What would you have done?"

 **Finn Snow –** _ **The Princess**_ **, The Drowned Town, Braavos**

What would I have done? I wouldn't have betrayed my friends. I'd never murder anyone, least of all a friend. But Hilario was not my friend anymore.

I looked to Mikko, my eyes falling on his arakh. I looked back to Hilario, knelt upon the ground, and remembered the first time father took Markas and I as he executed a raper. How my father spoke, how he gave them a quick end… but I'd never killed a man on his knees before. I'd never killed someone absent a weapon.

I held out a hand to Mikko, who looked down at his arakh before unsheathing and handing it to me. Mikko picked up a crate, placing it at the edge of the stones we stood upon, and knelt Hilario over it. I rested my hands on the hilt of the blade, looking down at Hilario.

"If you have any last words, Hilario, now's the time to speak them."

"Finn…" Helesa took a step towards me, though it was hard to hear her over the thunder.

"You shouldn't be alive, Finn Snow." Hilario turned towards me, a faint smile on his lips. Maybe he was still drunk, maybe I'd hit him too hard or perhaps he was simply mad. "But I'm glad you are."

"You betrayed me."

"I did. And I'd do it again. Belos is right, you're not human anymore, Snow. There's a special place for people like you in death."

"Don't save me a spot, friend. I've other business to attend to…"

"Finn, he was your friend!" Helesa pleaded. "Send him away – this is your chance to prove him wrong…"

Eventually I stopped listening to her. She didn't understand. No-one could. The blackness, the confusion… the sudden flooding of memories. I felt myself die. And that was the first thing I remembered was my friend. Hilario. And his dagger stuck in my belly.

I didn't want to kill Hilario. I desperately wanted him to say he was forced to do it. Blackmail or witchcraft – something. I wanted him to threaten me or find some leverage to force me to spare him. Hilario was my friend, perhaps even my closest friend at once. We trained together, lived together, fought together… he was as near as a brother once.

But my father would have executed him. Justice demanded that he be executed. Only know did a blade in my hand feel heavy as I looked down at Hilario through the pelting rain. Father always told me that ours was the Old Way. We needed to look a man in the eye and pass the sentence before swinging the sword. It was our life to take. And if we couldn't take it, perhaps we couldn't pass the sentence.

"Valar Morghulis." Hilario closed his eyes.

"Valar Dohaeris." I whispered.

I raised the arakh, and it fell upon Hilario's neck, severing his head from his body.

 **Rowen Arryn – The Eyrie, The Vale of Arryn**

 _Lord Rowen of House Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East,_

 _In his wisdom, King Aeron of the House Targaryen, First of his Name, King of the Andals and the First Men and Lord Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, has invited you, or one of your daughters, to King's Landing at his pleasure._

 _He swears, upon his Honour as a Targaryen and a King, that you will suffer no harm. He would simply have you bend the Knee and swear Fealty to him as King. Remember the Oath your Ancestors swore, My Lord. Honour your Great and Noble House's Pledge._

 _Lady Dyanne Baelish of the Fingers, Stewardess of the Snakewood_

I handed the ravenscroll to Maester Ewyn and nodded my thanks. Dyanne… The Late King's former mistress… a woman with as much honour as a whore. Still, she had not taken any lands or titles from the King. Only jewellery and his seed; a seed she shaped into a Bastard.

Still, Draegor had died. Killed by Viserys, some say. Others say Aeron killed him – poisoned him while he slept. All I knew was that Viserys contested Aeron's claim when he ascended to the throne. That made him a usurper.

"What did she say?" I looked to my youngest, Sarissa. A delicate flower from the Vale, with my light golden hair and my late wife's light blue eyes. She was wrapped in a silver shawl over her woollen blue gown, and was the perfect picture of a Lady of House Arryn.

"She requests on behalf of her son, the King, that one of us attend King's Landing and bend the knee."

My eldest, Lily, scoffed at this. She was as sturdy as a castle wall, and just as unyielding. She had inherited my golden hair and her mother's blue eyes, though she had not inherited her beauty. No, it seemed my beloved Sera's beauty had been reserved for Sarissa. Lily had, in turn, been blessed with my warrior's spirit. Truly the daughter of the Falcon Knight. She was dressed as any man ready for battle – light leathers and breeches.

Many of the Lords of the Vale scoffed and muttered their gossip as she strode by, but as I told her, she was an Arryn of the Vale. Though my brother, Pywen may inherit the Eyrie and the Vale, she would always be an Arryn. Sarissa may marry a Lord, keep his castle and bear his children, but Lilyen was not a Lady. She was a Falcon.

"Something to say, Lilyen?"

"If Aeron wishes to invite you to King's Landing, let him send a raven himself. Don't answer on the whims of a former mistress."

"Father," Sarissa stepped in front of Lily, "our ancestors swore an oath of fealty. It is our duty to serve the Targaryens. Lest we be allied with the oathbreaker, Viserys." Lilyen shifted uncomfortably, her eyes studying mine.

"Lilyen?"

"Father," Lilyen's hand reached into her sleeve, producing a small ravenscroll, "a raven came. From Dragonstone."

"Dragonstone?" Sarissa's eyes grew wide.

"Yes. Viserys Targaryen has-"

"Father, throw the scroll in the fire!" Sarissa urged me. "He's an oathbreaker, a would-be kin-slayer!" I stroked my chin as my other hand rested on the Silverspear, leant on the arm of my chair. I stretched out my hand, and Lilyen handed me the scroll. "Father!" Sarissa gasped.

I unfurled the scroll and flickered my eyes across the scrawled words.

 _Lord Rowen of House Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East_

 _These are Dire times, My Lord. The Realm has fallen into Chaos under the Reign of a Usurper and a kin-slayer. Aeron's lies would turn you against me, but I Urge you to consider these words. Storm's End was Razed by Aeron. Winterfell was Razed by my treacherous sister, Laena. Are these the actions of a Just King?_

 _Aeron has bought the Westerlands with a Lordship, and the Reach with a Marriage. I need not make any Offers except this; Honour the Pledge your ancestors made. I seek an audience with you. Once I am granted, I shall journey to the Eyrie._

 _Viserys of House Targaryen, Third of His Name, Rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, Rightful Lord Protector of the Realm._

"He's brazen, I'll say that much…" I muttered, standing up and walking to the fireplace, "Like his mother." I examined the words again. "He calls Aeron a kin-slayer and a usurper."

"He's a Bastard," Lilyen agreed.

"Father, each claimant calls the other an oathbreaker. You can't trust the words of them. All we know is that Aeron is King. Toss the scroll into the fire and be done with Viserys."

Honour compelled me to fight for Aeron, my King. But, if he was an oathbreaker as Viserys stated, I would be breaking my ancestor's vow.

"I will do my duty," I said quietly, tossing the scroll into the fire, "but I do not know what that is." I turned back to my daughters, and put a shoulder on Lilyen's shoulder. "Send a raven to Dragonstone. Tell Viserys I will grant him an audience. Upon my honour, he shall find no harm here."

 **Mikko –** _ **The Princess**_ **, The Drowned Town, Braavos**

I sat at the table with Finn, which consisted of every drink from the winesink; his favourite spiced rum with honeyed cinnamon, dreamwine, Tyroshi pear brandy and wine from smokeberry, Ghiscari, Volantis, the Jade Sea and Lys. Finn sat there, eyeing the bottles carefully as his fingers brushed against the crystal rim of the empty glass cup, his other hand licking the flame of the candle that glinted and danced his eyes. The roof creaked against the gales of the tempestuous storm outside.

"Hilario tried to kill you," I stated, "and he lost his head for his trouble."

"Aye." Finn nodded. "He did what he thought was right." Finn leant back and uncorked a bottle of apricot wine, "the Smiling Reaper," Finn scoffed, "Gods… what a stupid name."

There was something in Finn's scoff, in how he poured himself a drink. No laughter, no arrogance. It seemed almost like he hadn't the energy for glib remarks.

"How did he get the name?"

"A noblewoman from Volantis. She…" Finn started to grin, "she was visiting with her husband. He insisted that Belos and I escort him to meet the Sealord of Braavos and…" Finn let out a chuckle of nostalgia, "Hilario said he'll look after the wife."

I couldn't help but smile at this and share in Finn's laughter. "What happened?"

Finn needed to take a breath to stop himself from cackling, to no avail. "He… he…" Finn said between guffaws, "He fell asleep on the cabin of the ship, and had to jump into the water with his sword in one hand and breeches in the other!"

The way Finn talked about them… they had been very close at some point. But here Finn sat, with Hilario's blood still on his face.

"So…" I said after a moment, "Belos is left."

"Aye." Finn nodded, his smile fading. "Then we can hang up our swords." Finn took a swig from the glass, finishing it in one. He gulped and smacked his lips. I knew this look well. It shocked and amazed me that Finn Snow was the one wearing it. Determinedly staring into the distance, jaw clenched, hand shaking while pouring another glass…

"You're uncertain." I stated. Finn didn't turn to look at me. "You're close to finishing all of this… to having a normal life. But you're not sure if you can do it." Finn licked his lips and sipped the glass of Tyroshi pear brandy.

"Belos has to be somewhere in the district," He cleared his throat, "there's an orphanage on the other side that he often-"

"Do you want a normal life?" I furrowed my brow. "Killing… I've seen it change people. In the _khalasar_ , we were taught to fight each other, to kill if we could. In the end, you kill too many that you forget they're people." I poured myself a glass, filling up Finn's as well. "My mother died bringing me into this world. A bad omen… My father called me cursed. And when I would refuse to kill or take slaves…" I drank again. " _Khal_ Dhina challenged me. I refused to fight, and he cut off my braid," I ran a hand over my shaved head, "He claimed that I was no _khalakka_ of his."

" _Khalakka_?" Finn frowned.

"Who leads the _khalasar_ after. The new _Khal_."

" _Khal_ Dhina…" Finn's eyes grew wide. "Your father was a _Khal_?"

I nodded. "I refused to fight the _Khal_ and when I awoke, they had left me. And afterwards…" I took a breath, "after they left me, I met a man and his daughter." I smiled, remembering how glad I was to see them. I'd only eaten a dead bird, coated in sand for four days until they found me outside of Yunkai. "Damas and Alias. She… she was mine." I looked into Finn's big, dark eyes. "Damas showed me how to fish. After a month, I'd gathered enough oysters to make her a necklace of pearls."

"So, why did you leave her?" Finn asked. "I met you in the Second Sons…"

"I did not leave her." I growled at Finn, my hand gripping my glass tightly. "She was taken from me." I reach a hand into my leathers and pulled out the strings of pearls, "This was hers." I rubbed a finger along them, cracked and blood-stained. I couldn't bear talking about what had happened to her. It was as if I re-lived the pain over. "Thieves… they are not honourable." That was all I could manage to say.

Finn nodded. He understood now. "Get me Hilario's blade."

I nodded, brushing my hand against my eyes as I walked up the stairs, passing Helesa, and going into Finn's room, where the silver-hilted blade sat in the sheathe. I picked it up and started to walk down the stairs, until I heard the raised voices of Finn and Helesa. I crept closer, making out their words more clearly.

"…Is everything you do out of hatred, Finn?" Helesa said as Finn drank from a bottle, turning to her, swaying slightly.

"It ain't hate, Helesa!" Finn pointed at her. "It's honour!"

"Honour for who?" Helesa shook her head. "Who's left to honour when you've cast aside every hand offered to you?"

"Leave me be!" Finn bawled. "You don't know what I've suffered…"

"Always running away when you could be doing so much more!" Helesa took the bottle from Finn. "You could have gone back to Westeros any time you wanted. But no, you told yourself they didn't want you anymore. That you didn't want them. You dug yourself a hole and told yourself you were better off here-"

"Damn you then!" Finn bellowed, throwing a chair across the floor. "Mikko!" Finn called to me. I dashed down the stairs, giving Finn the belt, which he fastened around his waist, walking to the door.

"I won't mourn you again!" Helesa shouted after him, "If you walk out of there, and we'll never have the life we promised each other!"

Finn paused at the door, turning back to look at Helesa. His hair was a mess, mangled with rainwater and blood. His pointed face seemed to crack as he shook his head and walked out of _The Princess_ , seeking vengeance on the man who had wronged him.

No, not vengeance.

Justice.

 **Damn this was a long chapter… the longest yet I think. Though, chapter 30 may be a bit longer… and this is 5,000 words (8 full pages). Please leave a review, send in a character (PM me about the Dornishman!) and don't forget to favourite if you're enjoying the story!**

 **The next chapter will be in King's Landing, The Dreadfort and Riverrun. It is also named '** _ **The Blades of Bolton**_ **'.**


	28. The Blades of Bolton

**Hey guys! So, I've handed in my last deadline and have a lot of time on my hands now. Though I haven't slept in like… two days, so I'm not sure when I'll be uploading this chapter.**

 **We're fast approaching the end of this instalment. It's a little premature, but thank you all for the continued interest and being patient while I finish my degree. Only a couple more days and then I've finished!**

 **Aeron Targaryen – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

This Roto was not a typical peasant. He was dressed in a cotton shirt and woollen breeches, that had been patched two or three times. I would have said that he was the son of a merchant, but he was lean with muscle for his age, with thick callouses laying heavily upon his hands. Lucian had informed me that this man was the son of Riler, a blacksmith from the Street of Steel. I'd ordered Ser Howland to personally make sure the forge was shut down before it be auctioned, and all the steel go to the castle forge.

Roto was shackled, drudging through the Throne Room until he reached the stand, which his shackles were chained to. His eyes stayed low, as he began to mumble to himself. No doubt begging the Gods for mercy. He would find none here, lest the Seven appear and demand his life be spared.

Lucian rose from his chair on my right. "Present for this trial is His Grace, King Aeron of House Targaryen, First of His Name. Myself, Lord Lucian of House Lannister, the Hand of the King. And Lord Oroville Tyrell, Master of Laws." Lucian moved to sit down again, as did the audience behind this rat, Roto.

. "The trial is now in progress. Roto, son of Riler, you stand accused of high treason. How do you plead?" Roto mumbled something. Lucian looked to Ser Mikal, and nodded. Ser Mikal laid a hand upon his sword.

"You will answer the Lord Hand," My faithful protector growled.

"Not guilty," Roto repeated himself loudly.

Lucian turned around to look at me, but I said nothing. I simply began to pick at the hilt on the arm of my chair, and gave him a short nod. This boy was far too impudent to drag out the trial. Lucian nodded.

"Roto, Son of Riler, did you conspire to kill the King and his wife, Queen Delyth?"

"I did not," Roto shook his head.

"You deny attempting to kill the King?"

"I do." Roto's eyes fleeted across his judges.

"Peasant," I addressed him, "I saw you clutching a blade and attempting to gut my wife. I cut down your allies. Ser Mikal himself brought you down." I gestured to my loyal knight, "Yet you deny trying to assassinate me?"

"I do not." Roto replied. "But it is not treason as you are not my king."

The Throne Room erupted into gasps and mutters, and I saw Roto's lip curl slightly. He wanted me to react, but that would not be kingly of me. No, I was Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. And Roto was a mere peasant.

"I am anointed by the Seven themselves as King. I am the son of Rhaegon Targaryen-"

"Bastard son!" Roto shouted. "We all know what you did, Bastard! You set Storm's End alight, and did the same in Winterfell-"

Ser Mikal struck Roto across the mouth, a tooth flinging out onto the stone floor followed by speckles of blood.

"The Baratheons and Starks supported the Oathbreaker, Viserys Targaryen." My father, Oroville, spoke. "The Oathbreaker, Rylon Baratheon, poisoned the king so he could rule in his stead. The entire House should be torn out, root and stem!"

The audience stomped their feet as Roto shook his head.

"Viserys Targaryen is true-born. He has not burnt keeps and butchered smallfolk." He looked up at me, blood dribbling from his swollen mouth.

"Viserys Targaryen is dead." I rose from my throne. "I fought him in single combat at Storm's End. I watched him plummet into the sea with his dragon. And once his treacherous oathbreaker twin, Visenya is caught, this… familial dispute," the audience chuckled, "will be over."

"You admit to attempting to assassinate the King?"

Roto grinned. An insane grin, one a man only does when he knows he has naught else to lose. He turned around to the audience. "I tried to save everyone. From a tyrant who burns and butchers innocent people. You say you are the Lords of King's Landing, but I am part of the true people. Those you call the Rats of King's Landing. There are thousands of us, and each of us have claws. You will never kill us all! We will feast on the rotting flesh of every noble who tries to catch us-"

The nobles erupted into chaos, screaming for his blood, demanding death of the traitor. I simply grinned, and held up a hand, gesturing for quiet. Lucian leant over.

"Your Grace, he must die…"

"Agreed." I whispered. "But not as an execution." I rose from my chair. "Roto, Son of Riler, you are found guilty of high treason. You dispute my claim to the throne as Rhaegon's last legitimate son. To that, I say only this; I am anointed by the Seven as Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. And like my forefather, Aegon the Conqueror, I shall challenge these accusations." I held out my hands. "I have defeated the would-be usurper, Viserys, and I shall continue to contest all others that shall rise. Be they from noble houses, or sewers like this rat." I pointed to Ser Mikal. "My faithful knight, Lord Commander Mikal Drake, shall stand as my champion. Should you speak the truth, I am sure that the Seven shall bless you and you will prevail. Roto, Son of Riler, I sentence you to a trial by combat."

 **Theadosia Bolton – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

Aeron Targaryen never ceased to amaze me. I had been looking forward to see the headsman's axe sever the peasant's sharp face from his shoulders. Though, I suppose it was different in the South – what better way to demonstrate your authority than to have your dragons devour those that trespass against you?

I wondered if dragonfire burnt bodies differently. From what I had heard, it simply burned hotter and brighter than any torch that lit our keeps. I'd had my experience with seared flesh back at the Dreadfort, where we punished our ne'er-do-well's with harsher treatment than the bloody Starks.

I waited for the Throne Room to clear out, planning to approach Aeron alone and gain some basis for our alliance. Be it a royal writ or his word, I would not return to my father empty-handed. I would prove myself worthy of inheriting my kingdom. Raff was too brash, too focused on his brawls and sparring. He was a soldier, a commander, but not a King. And though I was named a Lady, I was a Queen in the North.

Aeron caught sight of me, the lacing of my bodice tactically loosened for our talk. Aeron smiled, and stood up, hanging his crown on one of the many blades of the Iron Throne. Lucian Lannister took his place as the wooden podium and benches were taken from the room, to make way for the lesser lords and knights who had come to ask for the King's patronage or permission for their various petty squabbles over pigs and dirt.

"Lady Theadosia," Aeron bowed his head. Ser Mikal, however, remained statuesque in the background, unmoving and unfeeling.

"Your Grace," I curtsied.

"I trust you enjoyed your gift?"

"Very much, Your Grace. You must accompany me soon."

"I'm sure your betrothed, Lord Flint, must be awaiting you eagerly. A good wife will not keep him waiting."

"I'm sure you are right, Your Grace." I didn't mean to smile at him, but I detected a hint of melancholia in his voice as he spoke. He was cordial, of course, but I began to see a glimmer of a possibility begin to emerge. There was a flicker of hope in my endeavour.

"Does something amuse you, My Lady?"

"No, Your Grace," I lowered my eyes to the ground, in an attempt to look coy, trying to soften my voice and mimic his pretty fool. "It's just that… Well, you have surprised me."

"I certainly have not intended to. In what way?"

"You did not need to marry the Tyrell girl. Your father has passed, as has the traitor, Rylon Baratheon."

"My family is one of Kings and Queens. We, more than most, must keep our word. Besides…" Aeron began to fiddle with one of his ruby-encrusted rings, "Delyth is important to me."

"I see," What a fool. Marrying for love – I didn't believe in such a thing. If love was as powerful as everyone insisted, why didn't everyone marry for love? The only possible reason is that love does not exist, for if it did, it would surely turn the tide of a battle more than the thousands of men one gained in wedding a son or daughter to those of high birth.

"You've heard she is with child?"

"I have, Your Grace. Congratulations are in order."

"Thank you. But…" Aeron sighed, "if we did not marry, my child would be named Waters. A bastard." Aeron shook his head, "I wouldn't wish that life upon my kin."

A damned bloody fool. This was his weakness – his bastardy. Though he may have been of House Targaryen, he was still a Stone underneath this all. And what's more, is that he felt some misplaced sense of duty towards his family, or what little of it he had not yet mangled. A plan began to form in my mind, and it became clear of how I would not only ensure my House's position in the North, but also my own position in all of Westeros.

 **Edgar Sand – Starfall, Dorne**

It was good to be home. I hadn't been here for… well, for too many years. It was different to Sunspear. The Dayne's had always been of different substance. We didn't boast as much. No, we prided ourselves on honour, duty.

As soon as I neared, I saw the armies stationed outside in camps. Vorian's Desert Dogs. Fearsome beasts… they'd protected the Red Mountains from the foreign invaders in the North. Though, they were not stationed in the Red Mountains anymore – the Desert Dogs were here in force. 8,000 men. Vorian always had been hot-tempered.

I passed through the gates and dismounted, handing the reigns of my horse over to one of the boys, a pretty thing called Duri. I flashed him a smile and let him take my horse.

"Where is my brother?" I asked.

"Lord Vorian is-"

"The Desert Dog himself is here," I turned around to see Vorian walking towards me, using his spear as a walking stick, accompanied by a troupe of his Desert Dogs. Vorian was a short man, several heads shorter than me. His nose was hawkish, as were his dark brown eyes. His hair was darker than mine, with a thick goatee around his mouth. He was wrapped in a pale brown tunic, the gold stitching of our sigil on his sleeve. He wrapped his arms around me and embraced me. "I did not think you would be here so soon."

"Richard was the best of us." I replied. "I'd not waste a breath on anything else but giving him justice."

"Or vengeance." Vorian replied, gripping his spear harder.

We began to walk through his camp, filled with his Desert Dogs. They were all hardy, ugly men. Not at all to my liking, but they were brave Dornish warriors. "8,000 men, ready to decimate the Reachmen." Vorian spun his spear around absent-mindedly as he spoke. "From there, we can march on King's Landing."

"8,000 men is not enough," I stated, "Aeron has two dragons."

"And I have two arrows." Vorian replied. "The Targaryens never took Dorne. They're weak – they rely on their dragons-"

I grabbed Vorian's arm, "They did not take Dorne because we know our land. They did not. But if we march into their Kingdom with this force…" I shook my head, "Your Desert Dogs defend the Red Mountains. Disperse this camp and send them back there."

"You disappoint me, Edgar," Vorian shook his head, "your time counselling the Queen has left you weak. Too weak for vengeance." He ran a hand across my own tunic. Violet, indigo and silver, with a ruby and sapphire jewelled belt. I grabbed his arm.

"I am not your foe, brother." I replied. "Unbowed, Unbent and Unbroken. This is not just a promise of the Martells, but of all Dornishmen."

"And what would your grand plan be?" He scoffed. "Politely ask them for justice?"

"No," I shook my head, placing a hand on his shoulder, "I plan to burn the rest of Westeros to ashes, slaughter their golden lions, their pretty roses and their dragons. And then, we shall lay Richard's bones in them. And the debt shall be paid."

"I will go and do this. With my Desert Dogs. I shall murder all Targaryens I find…"

"You are Prince of this House." I stated. "A Dayne of Starfall. I promised Richard I would take care of you."

Vorian and I were brothers. We may have had different mothers, but our father had put his seed in our mother's bellies on the same night. Unlike the dusty wedding beds in the North, we were all born of passion. The heat of Dorne was in our blood. Unlike those Targaryens, we were truly made of Fire and Blood.

Vorian let out a bird-like whistle at one of his men, who nodded, and mounted a horse, riding back to the keep. "You will kill the King?"

"If he is responsible." I nodded.

"You wield a sword like a goat."

I chuckled, "You had your ass beaten by a goat?"

"Not with my spear," Vorian looked at his weapon, flourishing it. He plunged it into the sand and held out a hand. "Sword."

I frowned, and began to unbuckle my sword belt, handing him my curved sabre. The pommel was embroidered with sapphires – in my position in Sunspear, it was more ceremonial than anything else. Besides… I'd learnt that there were better ways to kill a man than with a blade.

Vorian took the scabbard from me and drew my sword. "Kneel."

I did so, as several of his Desert Dogs came closer to witness the scene. "I, Vorian, of House Dayne, Son of Edmund, Prince of Starfall, and Commander of the Desert Dogs," his men let out a cheer, "dub thee Ser Edgar Sand of Starfall." He stretched out a hand, pulling me to my feet. The soldier returned, holding a sheathed greatsword that I recognized greatly. It couldn't have been…

Vorian took the sword from him and walked back to me. "There has not been a Sword of the Morning for a generation." He announced, looking down at the blade. When we were children, Vorian, Richard and I, we were fascinated by the tales of the Swords of the Morning. All of us wanted to be one. But, it was Richard who was truly blessed with a sword. He'd always been gifted. Sadly… it seemed he was not gifted enough. I knew how much Vorian wanted this blade, how much he dreamed of wielding it. "Richard was the best swordsman. He was the Sword of the Morning. He did not have the sword, but he was worthy." He muttered, looking up at me. He handed the blade to me. "Ser Edgar Sand, as Prince of Starfall, I name you the Sword of the Morning."

I took the blade from him and… it felt wrong. I was no great swordsman, I had not fought in battles like Vorian. I'd not defended kings like Richard. I was a nobleman, a politician. What did I know of knighthood or legendary swordplay? I took the greatsword, Dorne and pulled it from it's sheathe. A blade pale as moonlight, light and hard and nearly as big as Vorian.

"This means you must return." Vorian let out a small smile.

"Dawn will." I replied. "But I don't know if I will. Richard didn't and he was better than both of us."

"Yet you go anyway." Vorian replied. I nodded.

"For Richard." Vorian nodded, his smile turning sad as he grabbed my forearm.

"For Richard."

 **Markas Stark – The Dreadfort, The North**

I didn't want a squire to assist with my armour. After all, I wasn't some perfumed knight with lily's hanging out of his arse. I may have been young, but I was a warrior. And ours was the Old Way. It felt wrong to have another fasten my pauldrons and gorget over my brigandine. This was my battle. Enough boys had died.

The tarp of my tent opened, and the great Grim Bear, Rolan entered, his hand wresting on the hilt of Longclaw. In the other hand, he held Ice, my father's greatsword, the belt wrapped around the scabbard.

"Made sure she's polished," he handed the blade to me. I nodded my thanks, and fastened it across my chest; the blade was nearly as large as me, though the Valyrian steel made the sword as light as a longsword. I moved across to pull on my black leather gloves. "You sure about this, Markas?"

"Aye. I'm sure."

"Alvar may not have fought much, but don't underestimate him."

"I won't," I assured him. "He killed my uncle Adyn."

"I'm not talking about him with a blade," Rolan grumbled, pouring himself a horn of ale, "He's not like most Northmen. He might not fight you himself; Raff leads his armies…"

"So, you reckon Alvar will name him as his champion?"

Rolan nodded, "Raff's a demon."

"I know," I recalled the encounter at Oldcastle, the man shorn of any hair, covered in blood and calling his jibes. In a few short moments, he had me on the floor and at his mercy. It was only because of Rolan the Grim that I still drew breath. "Do you have any advice?"

Rolan stroked his chin for a moment. "Don't die."

"Aye, sound advice," I nodded.

"Raff's brash and impulsive. Use that against him. And this," Rolan slapped a hand against Ice, "isn't good in close quarters. Keep him at reach, and wait for an opening."

I nodded; Rolan was my closest advisor and oldest friend on my campaign. I would trust his advice beyond any other man in the North.

"Well," I made sure my spaulders and vambraces were fastened securely, "I suppose we best be on with this."

"Aye, Lord Stark," Rolan nodded, holding the tent open for me. I took a breath and walked out to my camp.

I'd ordered my men to stand guard around the Dreadfort, lined up just outside of their archers range. As I came to the front, I saw the Redbeard standing beside Reed. He was clad in his armour, dulled and scratched from the campaign. Redbeard's eyes were locked with a figure standing on top of the castle gates, a young man shorn of all hair on his head. Raff Bolton. He was clad in strange garb, as if he were Ironborn himself.

"Give the word, Stark," Redbeard growled, "Catapults have just been constructed."

"I'll not order my men to die."

"Stark," Redbeard grabbed my shoulder, turning him to face me. "Reconsider. I know you want to end this war yourself, but Raff Bolton has been fighting all his life. When sparring, he would kill his partners."

"I'm aware, Redbeard."

"You know what he'll do to you if he wins? There's a reason he's named the Iron Flayer."

"Well," I took a breath, taking the reins of my horse as it was brought up to me, "I guess I can't lose then."

I mounted my horse, but Redbeard held out his forearm, "After this, we'll find the craven, Cerwyn."

I grabbed his forearm firmly, "He'll find justice at the hands of a Stark, I'll promise you that much, Redbeard."

The Redbeard nodded at me, whistling for one of the soldiers to come forth. A broad-shouldered, ginger man stepped forwards, with pale skin and glinting ice-blue eyes. "This is my second-born, Brett. He's a fine soldier."

I nodded my thanks, and rode forwards with Brett. Mormont and Redbeard stayed behind, so as to keep the men ready to fight should the Boltons refuse. I rode up to their gate, resting my hands on the saddle and looking up at their archers, their arrows nocked. I felt as though there was a large plum in throat that I couldn't quite swallow, sucking the moisture out of my mouth. I prayed my voice would not quake.

"I request an audience with Alvar Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort!"

Raff Bolton stood at the top of the wall, rubbing his pale jaw as he looked to the archers, whispering a few words to them and then disappearing.

I sat upon my horse for ten long, tense moments, looking at those archers' arrows, all pointed at me. Finally, the portcullis began to creak and shudder upwards, back into the Dreadfort's gatehouse. Underneath, a grey, speckled mare walked out, with Raff sitting upon it, a grin plastered upon his mouth as he was followed by a burly, ugly-looking fellow.

"Lord Stark," Raff Bolton nodded at me.

"Lord Raff," I turned to the older fellow behind him. He didn't look as sophisticated or as old as I had been told Alvar Bolton was.

"I request an audience with your father."

"Aye, you did," Raff's grin grew wide. I swallow hard, trying to resist my disgust at watching the man's cooked smile unfurl.

"May you fetch him for me, then?"

Raff chuckled, "No." He adjusted his saddle, "That sword is too big for you, Stark." Raff's eyes were set upon the hilt of Ice, which sat behind my shoulder. I turned to look at it, and could feel Raff's pale grey eyes glint at the prospect of holding it. I almost moved my hand to it, though I knew how this would seem, and those arrows were still nocked.

"I've grow better at holding it since we last met, Bolton."

Raff let out a loud, throaty guffaw, "Well, aren't you the ferocious little lordling? Markas Stark…" Raff muttered to himself, "is that why you haven't begun your siege yet? Do you need help loading catapults?" He asked, mimicking a child's voice as he pouted.

"Your father broke faith, not you." I spoke through gritted teeth, "Your actions in this war were ordered and you obeyed. Bend the knee, and surrender the Dreadfort, and I shall pardon you and your men."

"S-surrender?" Raff laughed again, "Please, boy. You think I don't see your men deserting you?" All humour and amusement had now left his voice and his face, which was now hard and full of coldness and calculations. "You bring this boy with me to try and threaten me? Line up your pathetic army of archers?" Raff stifled a grin, "If you want the Dreadfort, take it. I cordially invite you inside."

Raff's face contorted into smugness, as if he was a cat playing with a rat before eating it. The thought made me terrified, though I would not show this. That was what he would want. "I challenge Alvar of House Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, to end the War in the North by single combat," I said loudly, making sure the archers could hear me, "I will fight him myself, and the victor shall claim the North."

"You?" Raff chuckled. "You will fight yourself?" He moved his hand to the axe upon his belt, "Then what say we settle this now?"

"With you?"

"I am my father's son and heir. I am Commander of the Dreadfort. Who better?"

"First of all, we shall discuss terms."

"Terms?" Raff frowned.

"There must be no interference from other men. The combat shall last until death. The Victor must treat his foes with respect, as they will cease to be enemies after the combat."

Raff scrunched up his face as he looked to the man next to him. He stayed like that for a moment before turning back to me. "Are you quite finished?"

My fist clenched around the reins of my horse, "Yes."

"Good, because I refuse your challenge." I didn't know what to say. I couldn't have believed Raff would do this. Refuse me challenge – surely he was scared of looking weak or fearful in front of his men. If Raff Bolton refused to fight, would he not lose the reputation he had cultivated for himself? "You think you are still our liege Lord?" Raff growled. "That you can set terms and expect us to obey them? You're a bloody fool Stark" He raised a hand, "and you shouldn't have come here…"

I turned to Brett. I wanted to shout at him to run. I wanted to pull back on my reins, but I couldn't. The next second, arrows were rained upon us, striking Brett Glover through the eye.

I felt one scratch across my cheek, and another penetrated my brigandine. My horse let out a pained neigh, and fell to the floor, my leg pinned underneath it. I could feel a sense of relief as I felt my leg pop. My back felt strange, not broken but wrapped or folded around the scabbard of Ice. I managed to move my head to see the masses of my armies behind me start to charge. More volleys of arrows soared over me, falling upon my armies. Raff Bolton walked over to me, his axe in one hand as his other hand flourished a small, thin blade.

"You fucking Starks…" Raff grinned, "all so noble and honourable…" Raff grinned, as the burly man dismounted, and began to move the horse off of me. "That's the problem with honour. You assume everyone else would die for it too." Raff shrugged to himself as more arrows sprang forth into my men, "Still… live and learn, I suppose. Well… not for you, not for long… I digress," He crouched down to me, "You and I are going to get to know each other _really_ well." He smirked, then jerked his head to the burly man, who picked me up and carried me forth into the depths of the Dreadfort.

 **Brandon Rivers – Riverrun, The Riverlands**

It felt strange to have the Tully sigil on my chest. True, it was the true Tully sigil – an azure trout on a field of silver, I suppose, so as to not offend the coming Targaryen King. I didn't quite understand it – Aeron Targaryen was King, but Viserys was more so? Despite that Aeron sat on the throne? It seemed a strange concept to me – one that father never wanted to tell me about, and I saw that look in his eyes, and knew why Aeron was not as much of a King as Viserys.

Aeron was a bastard.

I fastened my belt, which held a small red-hilted dagger. Father said I'd get my own sword upon turning thirteen. Until then, I had only held a sparring blade.

The door knocked, and the wetnurse, Jyssa entered. "Excuse me, Brandon, have you seen the Lady Melissa?"

I shook my head, "Is she not in her chambers?"

"No, it seems she's ran off again."

Cecilia would scold Mellie and Jyssa if she found out about this. Though, from knowing Mellie, I had an idea of where she would be. I nodded, "I'll try and look for her."

Jyssa curtsied and exited the room. I walked over to the wardrobe, and knocked on it once, waited a moment, and then knocked another two times. The wardrobe burst open and Mellie tumbled out, her dress tearing against one of the splinters as she giggled and rose to her feet. Her copper waves had fallen out of place and looked like wilting daisies. Despite her appearance, her large blue eyes glinting with excitement.

"Mellie," I licked my thumb and began to rub some grime off of her pert nose, "Jyssa's looking for you."

"Bleh," Mellie stuck her tongue out, "she's boring. Says I need to learn how to listen," Mellie walked over to my smallbow and picked it up, trying to draw back the string.

"Viserys Targaryen and his sister are coming," I walked over to her and took the bow from her, putting it back up on the wall, "and we're to be presented."

"Are we going to ride their dragons?" Mellie's sky-blue eyes glimmered once again.

"I don't think so, no."

"Well then, I'm not interested." Mellie began to stand on her toes in effort to reach my bow once more.

"You have to be interested – they're the royal family…"

"Who says I have to be interested?"

"Father and Lady Cecilia."

Millie let out a loud groan, "Mother always tells me what to be interested in and to not speak so much, but that doesn't make any sense…"

"Well, that's because-"

"Because if they're not speaking, then what does it matter if I am?"

"Maybe they'll want to sp-"

"Someone's always speaking somewhere in the world, so why not me?"

"Mellie," I bent down a little, and put a hand on her shoulder, grabbing her attention, "They'll be here soon. We've got to…"

I was cut off by a tremendous rumble that shook across the skies, breaking the clouds apart. I walked over to my window and peered out to see a figure emerge from the sky – a small dragon, spinning from the clouds as it's wings opened up and it began to soar across the Riverlands towards us.

"He's here," I turned around, making sure I looked presentable for father and Lady Cecilia.

"Why is there only one dragon?"

"Maybe they're both riding it…" I muttered, trying to smooth my hair down.

"But I thought every Targaryen has their own dragon. They get it when they're born and the dragons bond with them-"

I grabbed Mellie by the hand and began to pull her through the corridors.

By the time we got to the gate, father and Lady Cecilia were already standing at the end of the drawbridge, along with Ser Florian Hightower, Jyssa and a few other select individuals from our Household. I stood beside father and Lady Cecilia, as Mellie was placed in front of them.

The dragon landed with a crash, and let out a howl as it began to look around, moving it's ginormous wings as it crawled towards us, it's ugly head twisting to the side as it's large red eyes began to examine us individually. It's scaled lips began to part, revealing crooked fangs that had torn their way out of it's gums.

A figure dismounted from the beast, and walked towards us. It was strange, seeing them walk normally, like any normal Lord of peasant even. But was even stranger, was the fact that there was only one of them.

She was attractive. Like the old tales of Rhaenys Targaryen with her fearsome dragon. Her silver hair, violet eyes, a pointed pale face… She wore a fine dark dress, cut low and worn over one shoulder, along with a scarlet cloak, fastened with a silver three-headed dragon.

"Princess Visenya," Father knelt along with the rest of the household. I quickly followed suit, hissing at Mellie to do the same, which she did.

"You may rise, My Lord," Princess Visenya smiled, walking forwards and holding out an arm, which father clasped.

"Your Grace, may I present my wife, Lady Cecilia."

"Your Grace," Lady Cecilia dipped into a curtsy. Visenya bowed her head with a modest smile of grace before bending down to examine Mellie. "This is our daughter, Melissa, Your Grace." Lady Cecilia stated.

"How old are you, Melissa?" Visenya asked. However, Mellie's eyes were fixed on the grumbling dragon.

"Mellie," Lady Cecilia hissed.

"What?" Mellie turned around to face her mother. However, before Lady Cecilia could say anything, Visenya let out a small chuckle.

"It's quite alright, Lady Tully," She smiled at Mellie. "Do you like my dragon?" Mellie nodded eagerly. "Do you want to touch him?"

"Your Grace…" Lady Cecilia whispered.

"It's perfectly safe, My Lady," Visenya assured her. "Sunfyre does not like River-Flesh," Visenya turned to Mellie with a slight smile, "Too stringy." Mellie beamed at this.

"When can I ride her?"

"Mellie!" Lady Cecilia cried.

"Perhaps later, Lady Melissa," Visenya straightened up, "I'll take her myself and fasten her to my saddle. She'll not be in any danger – I swear to you by the Gods and upon my brother's grave."

Lady Cecilia licked her lips, and bowed her head. Father caught my eye, then took a step forwards towards Visenya. "Your Grace, may I present Brandon Rivers, my natural-born son?"

"Rivers?" Visenya raised an eyebrow and her lips turned thin, "A bastard?"

"My first-born son," Father corrected her. "He has never tarnished my House."

"Bastards tarnish their houses by breathing." Visenya replied, glancing her eyes up and down me.

"Your Grace," Father let out a nerous chuckle, "Brandon is amongst the finest boys in the Riverlands-"

"I'm sure," Visenya replied, "Let us talk in your Hall."

"Is Viserys not joining us, Your Grace?"

"He has business elsewhere," Visenya moved the brooch of her cloak slightly, "let us discuss your fealty to my family."

"At your pleasure, Your Grace," Father dipped into a low bow, as we all began to follow her into our keep. I made sure to follow behind everyone.

As the Bastard of Riverrun should.

 **Julian – The Black Cells, The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

Roto's cell was dingy. Full of muck and mire. I was escorted by the royal guard, allowed to bring a flagon of ale to Roto as part of his last meal. I held it close to my face, trying to cover up the smell of shit and piss as I walked through the dark corridors with the guards.

"Halt. Who goes there?" Asked the steel-clad guard at the door.

"Ser Orwen of the Royal Guard, escorting Julian, ward of Riler, to see the prisoner."

"Very good, Ser Orwen. You may proceed."

The guard turned to unlock the door to Roto's cell. As he did so, the guard beside me, Ser Orwen, spoke softly.

"Ser Mikal will lighten your bastard traitor's body by a head."

I felt my fist clench around the handle of the flagon. I knew that attacking the guard would only earn me a place alongside Roto, and so I kept quiet. Eventually, I was led into the cell, which was darker than the night sky outside. It took a moment for my edges to adjust and, out of the dancing light of the torches, I could make out Roto's shape.

"Roto?" I took a step forwards, "It's me, Julian."

"Julian?" The figure lurched forwards, and I saw Roto's oily face emerge into the torchlight. "What are you doing here?" He hissed.

"I brought you ale," I held up the flagon. Roto meandered closer, taking the flagon from me and sniffing it several times. "It's not poisoned," I assured him.

"Did the guards take it from you?"

"Yes, to make sure it wasn't poisoned." I rolled my eyes at Roto and took the flagon from him, drinking a measure and then holding it out to him.

"It could still be-"

"Just drink the fucking ale." I took a seat on one of the rickety benches opposite Roto, watching him gulp down the ale. "By the Seven, you're a fucking idiot…"

"Why?"

"Maybe because you tried to kill the King!" I shook my head. "A trial by combat…"

"I'd rather die on my feet with a sword than by the headsman's axe…"

I grabbed Roto by the collar of his dirtied shirt, "That must sound noble to you, mustn't it? Dying with a sword in your hand? But you'll be remembered as an Oathbreaker. People will spit upon me, upon your father. You'll be remembered as a villain." I released his shirt, pushing him back down to his bench, "There's no honour or nobility in death. There's just death."

Roto sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "You'll look after my father, won't you?"

"That was your fucking job." I snarled back at him, looking at the burning torch. I knew these were my last moments with him, and I knew I should've been nicer but… I couldn't hold back how I was feeling. He was a fucking fool, a selfish bastard! Why couldn't he have just been sensible for once? "You don't stand a chance against Mikal Drake." I stated.

"Worse men have won against better odds." There was a pause as I raised an eyebrow at him.

"You realise you're fucked?"

"Probably," Roto gave a lop-sided grin. "What are you going to do afterwards?"

I looked back to the door I had entered through. "Well, they'll give us hell if we stay here, I'm sure of that much."

"Where will you go then?"

I shrugged, "Lannisport? Oldtown? I can't stay here…" I hung my head, trying to figure out how to tell Roto. "Your father… he's gone."

Roto stitched his brow together, "Gone?"

"He said…" I took the flagon from him, gulping down a measure to water the courage in my chest, "he said he wouldn't watch his son die."

"So he left…" Roto nodded. "And you?"

"I'll stay," I assured my cousin. "If only to make sure you can find a horse should you prevail."

"I think we both know that's not true, Julian." Roto sighed. He stood up, looking at the door. "I need my rest. I face Ser Mikal tomorrow." I nodded, standing up and handing the flagon back to Roto. "This may be the last time we see each other."

"It may." I nodded. I wrapped my arms around Roto's shoulders. "I love you, Cousin."

"I love you too," Roto said, albeit somewhat muffled into my shoulder. "Should I die…"

"Don't think like that."

"Should I die," Roto repeated, "don't bother to stay and bury my bones. Leave King's Landing… Go somewhere they'll never be able to harm you."

"I swear." I nodded, my arms tightening around the last family I had. I broke apart from him.

"Guard!" Roto called. "Julian wishes to leave." The door began to clink. I knew I had to be strong for Roto, but it was difficult. Knowing it was the last time I'd ever see him… Roto just smiled, and slapped my shoulder, "Don't be sad, Julian." Roto said, trying to mimic a chipper tone, "We'll meet again. In this world, or the one below."

I nodded, and held out a forearm, which Roto took. "If you can, take the bastard with you."

 **So… 6486 words… 10 pages worth. That's the longest chapter so far and quite a bit happened. Please let me know your reactions to each scenario. This may have taken a while to come out, but hopefully you can see the work I've put into this chapter.**

 **As always, here's the info on the next chapter: It is named '** _ **The Darkest Hour of Night**_ **', and is set in King's Landing, White Harbour and… The Stormlands. Theorize whatever you shall.**

 **Also, only 2 chapters left! How crazy is that?! This is, by far, the longest instalment of the Three Heads of the Dragon series. So… yeah. Cah-ray-zay.**


	29. The Darkest Hour of Night

**Sorry for the delay. I went home for a while, saw the family, went on a night out and so on… Welcome to the penultimate chapter,** _ **The Darkest Hour of Night**_ **.**

 **NOW, I noticed a massive error in the previous chapter, so I'm just going to clarify – Rolan Mormont is not at the siege. That was a massive mistake in my last chapter – I'll remedy that once I finish this story. Apologies.**

 **Ser Edgar Sand – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

I'd never understood why the rest of Westeros could not fend off the dragonlord Targaryens. But, looking upon the Red Keep, I found there was little wonder; who could oppose those who could construct such a castle? Two dragons flapped their wings as they circled the spires that arced up to the heavens above. Glistening scarlet stone resembling fire and blood.

As I came to the gates, a large steel-armoured brute walked up to me, chuckling as he looked back to his friend. "Are you lost, Dornishman?"

"I do not believe so, no."

"What's a Dornishman doing this far North?" I turned to the second man.

"Engaging in a palaver with two men, unencumbered with the mind."

"What's that then?" The first guard turned back to his peer.

"A mind?"

"No, a palafer you dolt."

"Sers, I have business with your King, Aeron Targaryen."

The two men stiffened as the second advanced closer. "And what's a fella like you want with him?" The first man turned back to the second, "A spy, maybe?"

"Maybe, Tom." The second guard's gaze fell upon the hilt of Dawn. "That's a nice-looking sword."

"It is indeed," Tom's mouth shifted into an ugly smirk, "Could do with a nice-looking sword like that. It's about the price of entrance to the castle, ain't it, Paul?"

"Reckon so, Tom."

"Would you deny an anointed knight entrance to the castle?"

"A Dornish knight?" Tom guffawed. "I've taken bigger shits than you. Go find a fucking goat…"

I smiled and chuckled with them. Foolish oafs… they were easy to talk past. In my time at Sunspear, I had found that a threat alone was often as effective as carrying out any action. "I am the Sword of the Morning, Ser Edgar Sand of Starfall, bastard brother of Prince Vorian Dayne. I have come to seek an audience with your King, Aeron. So," I placed a hand on the hilt of Dawn, "shall we?"

 **Evie Stark – White Harbour, The North**

White Harbour. I never used to like visiting here, but Gods, I'd never been so glad to smell that fish. I had travelled from Winterfell to Cerwyn, and found both castles empty. And so, I had travelled south, down the White Knife, to White Harbour, in hopes of finding out where Markas was. I couldn't wait to see my brother… I missed his brooding silence, his melancholy tone. His dark hair and light eyes…

But I couldn't help but feel hollow at the prospect of seeing him. I didn't know how I would tell him about mother and Tylan… all I knew was that I had to tell him. I had to tell him that our mother was dead, and so was our youngest brother. I had to tell him that we were now orphans. That word felt strange… I oft thought that only peasants were orphans.

But the pack had not yet died. Markas was still alive. So was Finn… wherever he was. There was hope. House Stark was not gone. Though our castle was razed, our parents slain, one brother gone and another a world away, House Stark was still here. We'd stood for over a thousand years and we'd stand for another. On my mother's memory, I swore this.

I trotted along on my mare as I drew nearer to the town. Father used to like it here. He said that even in the bleakest winters, when it seemed as though nothing could survive the North, us northerners found a way. It was Spring, so commerce had resumed like an arrow shot from a bow. I never used to like it here, but Father insisted I had come along several times. He said that we all had to do things we didn't want to, from carrying out the King's justice to visiting a fishing town.

I dismounted my horse at the trough and walked past the various market stalls which boasted freshly caught mackerel. I passed an inn, the smell of salted black cod drowned in vinegar enchanted my nostrils. Gods, when was the last time I had eaten?

I wandered into the inn, which was surprisingly empty. I suppose, all the men had gone to fight. The inn was filled only by a young woman scrubbing a table and a couple of fishermen. I walked up to the serving girl.

"I'm sorry, can I have some food, please?"

"Show us some colour."

"Colour?" I frowned. The woman straightened up, holding out her hand. Gold… I took out my purse, looking inside to find a smattering of silver. Well… it would be a while before I would find another place to eat… I took as many as would fit in my hand and held it out to her. The girl took one, turning it over in her hands before resting a hand on her hip. "What can I get you?"

"Cod. And potatoes… do you have any stew?" The woman nodded.

"Ale?"

I bit my lip – I'd barely ever had ale before. Once, when I was younger, I had tried some of Markas' at a feast, but found it… well, really dry and like crusty bread. I nodded my head – men drank it all the time, there must've been a reason. Maybe, since I was older now, I might like it…

When the woman returned with the food, I bit into it and fell in love. Thank the Gods for White Harbour. It's food was oily and bursting with flavour. The stew was piping hot, and though it burned the roof of my mouth, I'd never savoured a drop more. I wolfed down the bread, and took the horn of ale, gulping it. This only made me cough and splutter as I looked around for water. Finding none, nor the serving girl, I had some more stew, hoping it would wash out the flavour, which it did – only by burning my tongue.

The door opened, and a handful of men walked in. My heart leapt into my throat as I recognized one of them – he had travelled to Winterfell to see Markas. He had long auburn hair that fell to his shoulders, and even longer beard which had started to grey. A long, diagonal scar carved it's way down his cheek, away from his light brown eyes.

"Bloody dolt…" Lord Ichabod Cerwyn grumbled to himself as he sat down at the table in the centre of the room. He turned to the man beside him, "I warned him."

"Aye, M'Lord, you did," the man beside him agreed. "Oi, girl!" He called to the serving girl. "You've a Lord here! Service!"

"Cheeky bugga'…" the young woman walked over to them, slapping the side of the man's head, "don't go actin' like you're all 'ighborn and that, Duncan - I remember 'ow you used t' watch me bathe! Perha's I'll go tell your mother?"

"That's not necessary," Lord Ichabod grabbed the horn of ale from the other side of where the girl had touched it, "We require a meal."

"Aye, M'Lord, we got plen'y of tha'."

"Any salted beef or pork?"

"We got some fish. Black'od," She gestured with the jug of ale to me, "Li'le La'y ove' there ordered some not too lon' ago."

Lord Ichabod's eyes travelled over to me. "A Lady, you say?"

"Smells 'ighborn. Sounds it, too."

"My Lady," Lord Ichabod called over to me, "Are you unescorted? In times of war, I must suggest to you to reconsider this. We would happily offer an escort, should you be travelling in our direction."

I wiped my mouth and stood up, turning to face Lord Ichabod better. His eyes widened and he quickly leapt down onto one knee.

"Lady Evalyn," he looked to Duncan, "kneel, dog," he hissed. The man quickly followed. The woman looked at me with wide, green eyes.

"Yous Evie Stark?" I nodded, and the woman set down the jug of ale before kneeling. "So sorry M'Lady, I been…" she turned to Duncan, "I was sayin' all that shite- sorry, M'Lady…"

"It's quite alright," I held up a hand to reassure her.

"Food alrigh', M'Lady? I can ge' you some more-"

"No need for that, it's perfect, thank you," I let out a small chuckle. It felt good to be back home… "My Lord Cerwyn, I'm glad that I have found you." Cerwyn's eyes stayed on the ground. "I'm seeking my brother, Markas."

"My Lady…" Lord Cerwyn rose to his feet, "Lord Markas…" He frowned, looking at his hands. "He's at the Dreadfort."

"He has besieged the Boltons already?" I knew Markas was better at warfare than he thought. He was just like father, just like Finn – Markas was a warrior, and he'd be a noble Lord once the War in the North was won. My legs began to tremble from the excitement of seeing Markas again.

"He… he did, My Lady," Lord Cerwyn cleared his throat, "we've heard that… Lord Markas has been taken as a hostage by Lord Raff of House Bolton." I frowned. I didn't understand, what did he mean, Markas was taken hostage? "We're returning home, to Castle Cerwyn."

"But… why aren't you still there?" I frowned. "Aren't you scared of what Markas will think?"

"My Lady," Cerwyn held the bridge of his nose, "Lord Markas has been taken by Raff Bolton. Into the Dreadfort. He is a prisoner. That is…" Cerwyn took a breath, "that is, if he is even still alive."

"Of course he is!" I shook my head. "What are you talking about, Markas is still alive!" I didn't understand this – I didn't want to! Father was gone, so was Tylan and mother… now Markas too? He was the last one of us – the last true Stark. My family. And now I was all alone. I wiped my eye and shook my head. "Why aren't you helping him?"

"My Lady, we heard that Lord Reed and the Redbeard have been unable to co-ordinate an assault… Lord Karstark has left Karhold but…" The serving girl offered me a hanky, and I used it to dab at the corners of my eyes. How was it that, in barely two months, I had lost my entire family? "My Lady, it is my duty to tell you that Winterfell…"

"I was there," I said quietly. "My mother is dead. Tylan is nowhere to be found…"

Lord Cerwyn's face crumpled as he walked towards me, resting a heavy hand on my shoulder as he leant down, "I won't pretend I hold much love for your family… Your brother was a fool, your father too, but they were your family." He took a breath, "And my ancestors swore an oath to yours. I shall continue to do my duty. You may reside in Castle Cerwyn. My men and I shall keep you safe."

"That's not my home."

"No… but it's the closest you have." Lord Cerwyn straightened up. "A terrible thing… to lose one's family. At such a tender age, too…"

I looked out of the window at the golden cusp sat heavily upon the waves, the strange ships arriving with a mark of a large warrior upon a purple sail. I vaguely remembered a ship like this from when I was a child, visiting White Harbour – the ship held darker people, strange spices and a foreign language shouted across the deck. I recognized the sail – it was a merchant vessel of Braavos.

"Not all my family…" I muttered. I turned back to Lord Cerwyn. "I need to buy passage to Braavos."

"Braavos?" Cerwyn frowned, "You'd go into exile?"

"No. I mean, I don't know. But… my brother, Finn is there."

"Ben's bastard?"

"Please, My Lord, I cannot do this alone…"

"I will not leave my castle undefended against the Boltons."

"But…" I began to frantically search for a reason I could use to persuade him, "we- we could hire an army! Bring back sellswords…"

"Evie…" Cerwyn gritted his teeth.

"Or we could talk to the Sealord of Braavos! We're highborn, I'm sure he would grant us an audience… maybe he will sympathise?"

"When will you understand, girl?" Cerwyn snapped at me. "This war is already done! The Boltons have won. Your name is gone. And I would sooner die in my bed with my children around me than on some Bolton's blade."

I wanted to cry. I balled my hands into fists to hold back the tears and gritted my teeth. I was sick of myself. When Finn left, I cried. When father died, I wept. When I was shipped down South, I sobbed. When mother and Tylan passed, I bawled, and here I was again, snivelling. A mess. Starks didn't act like this. Mother never did. Father never did – no-one ever did. I looked up at Cerwyn, who turned back to his table.

"I never thought you Craven, Cerwyn."

He turned around to me, eyes wide. "Craven?"

"You'd sooner run back to your keep like a whipped dog than fight for your land and your lord."

"The Starks are gone. By law, you are a Baratheon. I offer you protection out of my loyalty to your family."

"I was wedded, but never bedded." I stated firmly. "By law, I am still a Stark. A girl of fifteen, and I would still stand against the Boltons. Whereas you scurry back home. Well, go, Cerwyn. I have no need of cravens and Oathbreakers."

"You blasted girl…" Lord Cerwyn rose from his chair once more.

"I am Evie of House Stark, by right, the Wardeness of the North, and I order you as my bannerman to take my East to Braavos."

 **Aeron Targaryen – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

I walked into the throne room, rubbing my tired eyes. After visiting Ashriel in the dungeons, and discussing child names and birthday celebrations with Delyth, I was exhausted, and craved a few extra hours in my bed. However, it seemed I would find no respite – I was requested by a Dornishman. As much as I grumbled about granting him an audience, I was intrigued – a Dornishman in the capital? Would he be as savage as I'd been led to believe?

I entered the throne room, and found my Hand, Lord Lucian, sitting upon the throne, rubbing his chin in thought. Down the steps, stood a man in a violet silk surcoat, with silver streaks sweeping across like strokes of a brush to canvas. Underneath, was a linen flint-coloured shirt, and upon his back was a greatsword… an eye-catching greatsword.

"Your Grace." Lord Lucian rose, holding a hand to his breast and bowing his head. I nodded at him and walked up, taking my place on the Iron Throne as I looked at the Dornishman. He looked vaguely familiar – tall and lean, though his nose was sharp and his eyes were narrowed. Dark hair sheared short and presentable, but those deep blue eyes… I'd only known one other man to have eyes like that.

"May I present Ser Edgar Sand of House Dayne?" Lord Lucian held out a hand to the Dornishman in front of me, and turned to him, "The Sword of the Morning."

"Sword of the Morning?" I raised an eyebrow, turning to Ser Edgar. My suspicions were correct – a bastard of House Dayne. "You are Ser Richard's bastard brother?"

"I was."

I suppose a lesser man would have felt threatened. I was no fool – He was a Sword of the Morning, and Dornishmen were hot-tempered. But, I had my faithful Ser Mikal with me. I grinned as his hand clenched around his hilt.

"May I introduce you to Lord Commander Mikal Drake of the Kingsguard?"

Ser Mikal took a step forwards. "You're Richard Dayne's bastard brother?"

"Ser Richard Dayne," Ser Edgar nodded. "Are you the one who killed him?"

"If we're going to split hairs, it was on my orders," I explained, taking my cup of wine from my cup-bearer. "Well, he was an oathbreaker. He declared that I was not his king."

"He was loyal."

"He was." I nodded. "Very admirable. Very knightly… it's just a shame it was to the wrong Targaryen." I shifted my weight on my throne, "So, I suppose you've come to claim vengeance?"

"No…" Ser Edgar smiled, taking a cup of wine, and nodding his thanks, sniffing the cup and furrowing his brow.

"It's not poisoned, Ser. If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't use poison."

"It may not be poison, but this Arbor swill not far off…" Ser Edgar frowned, "We Dornish have stronger tastes."

Ser Mikal's hand tightened even more. He was a loyal hound, nay, a loyal dragonclaw. With one word, he would lunge forwards and rip out Ser Edgar's throat. But, for a Bastard to rise high to become the Sword of the Morning… I admired him. I respected him. Even if he was Dornish.

"Why are you here, Ser Edgar?"

"I've come to request a place on your Kingsguard." He explained. Ser Mikal let out a chuckle.

"It seems the Lord Commander is unimpressed with you."

"I am the Sword of the Morning. Surely, this is reason enough for a place on your Kingsguard."

"Dornishmen are piss-poor fighters," Ser Mikal rumbled, "better at swallowing swords than wielding them."

"It's hot in Dorne," Ser Edgar flexed his shoulders, "we're not used to frigid behaviour," he smiled at Ser Mikal.

"Your Grace," Ser Mikal turned to me, "I'd not let this man in the barracks, for fear of him sharing quarters with the other men."

"If six knights cannot fend off one, the tales of the Kingsguard have been grossly exaggerated…"

"I do not think you will kill them, boy-fucker…" Ser Mikal hissed.

Ser Edgar let out a chuckle. "Perhaps you are right, Ser Mikal. Maybe I will send for a Dornish Red and show the Westerosi what wine truly is…" He grinned. I rolled my eyes – how typically Dornish.

"I will not stand for that talk in my Keep, Ser. You are a guest, but I am chosen by the Gods to rule these lands, and I shall continue to carry out their will."

"Westerosi…" Ser Edgar chuckled to himself. He held out his arms. "So… am I accepted?"

I rubbed my thumb and fingers together. This Ser Edgar… he was very… well, Dornish. If I accepted him into the Kingsguard, I could be seen as a traitor to my own kingdoms. it could be a step towards uniting the kingdoms. If I could take Dorne, end Viserys and Visnenya and have the Boltons settle the War in the North, Westeros would know peace. And everyone would prosper… I would be the King who brought peace to the Seven Kingdoms and united them all under one throne. Moreover, he was the Sword of the Morning – only a fool would deny the loyalty of a knight of such a legendary lineage. All I had to gauge was who his loyalty was to.

"Leave us."

Ser Mikal turned to me, "Your Grace?"

"Your Grace," Lord Lucian crept towards me, "perhaps we might talk in private, before-"

"Do I need to ask twice?" I looked to Lord Lucian. He swallowed, and nodded, before shooting an anxious look at Ser Edgar and leaving with Ser Mikal.

I waited for the door to close before rising from my throne and sipping my wine, running my eyes up and down Ser Edgar.

"So," I cleared my throat, "should I fear for my safety?"

"You wouldn't have sent him out if you thought so." Ser Edgar stated. "I was an advisor to the Queen of Dorne."

I nodded. "So, why are you here, Ser Edgar?"

"I request a position on your Kingsguard…"

"Yes – I know that – but why? After all," I held my cup out, and my cup-bearer filled it with more wine, "the last Dornish knight on my Kingsguard died."

"You do not understand," Ser Edgar smiled, "I do not wish to be any knight. I wish to be the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."

I chortled, "Such a notion… shall you discuss it with Ser Mikal?"

"I fully intend to." Ser Edgar smiled at me, picking up the cup of wine. "My condolences for your father."

"Thank you Ser, to yours as well. And to your brother as well. You shared his blood, despite your… other family."

Ser Edgar laughed. "You Westerosi tip-toe around bastards so carefully… so my mother was not my father's wife." Ser Edgar shrugged, "We are born of lust. Of passion. In Dorne, our blood is that of the Sand. We have a thousand brothers and sisters."

"Not 'we'." I stated. "I am a Targaryen of the Red Keep."

"Of course." Ser Edgar nodded. "So… is there a ceremony? When do I find myself in one of those pretty white cloaks?"

I pulled my tongue across my teeth, nodding. "Report to Ser Mikal. He will oversee your iniation. I understand that the Kingsguard have their rituals." Ser Edgar nodded, and turned to leave. "Ser Edgar?" He turned around to me. "You will address me as 'Your Grace' from now."

"Of course. You are my King." He smiled, bowing his head once more. There was something about his smile – like that of a viper upon finding it's meal. No happiness, except that at the sight of cruelty and pain.

But we would see who he inflicted pain upon.

 **Haylise Baratheon – The Stormlands**

The birds were calling for me to awaken. It took some time, and everything was still blurred. My head was heavy, as were my eyelids, but I managed to make out my surroundings. A field, a tree… the air felt wet and heavy. And there was something… a sound. A constant sound. Rain, I think.

Hot. In my mouth. Wet. Warm. Tastes… chunks.

Wet again, this time cold. My arms felt cold. Then scratchy, but warm at least.

My eyes flickered open once again, and I saw that, I was, indeed, beneath a tree. Branches stretched out above me, with leaves sprouting all along it, all new and fresh. Looking down, I was wrapped beneath a rough-spun cotton blanket. I could make out a figure sitting beside a small fire, a pot set upon the flames, bubbling silently.

I pushed myself up onto my arms, and quickly fell back to the ground with a groan. The figure at the fire turned around, and walked over to me.

"My Lady?" I looked up at him, unable to make out the face beneath the hood. However, his voice was distinctive enough.

"Edric?" I croaked.

"Don't speak, Your Grace," he pressed a small bowl to my lips, feeding me some stew. "It's not much, so you need to rest."

"Where…" I began coughing. He picked up a small wooden cup of water to my lips.

"The Riverlands." Edric spoke. "I've been hiding you in the cart." He nodded to the small cart, loaded with hay. I smiled at him.

"You're a good man, Edric. Loyal…"

"Your Grace…" Edric stroked my hair. It was as though he was debating something, his eyes seemed to harden after a moment.

"What is it?"

Edric shook his head. "I'm taking you North to Winterfell. Hopefully your new sister-in-law can provide us with some shelter."

 **Lord Commander Mikal Drake – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

I stood in the gardens, my armour polished and my sword sharpened. Aeron had been a noble leader, decimating the House of Baratheon. They were traitors, who wielded their rage like a battering ram, uncaring of whomever may stand in their way. My only regret was that I was not the one to destroy their house myself.

Maester Godwin stood between the rat, Roto and I. He was all skin and bones, with no weapon of his own. Instead, he had been permitted to wield a blade from the armoury, along with a shield. He gripped the hilt firmly, muttering to himself as he eyed me carefully, no doubt planning a strategy. Fool. It would all be over quickly. I wasn't the type to toy. Dragging it out would only be cruel, and I would not stoop to the levels of rats and oathbreakers, who sought to kill their noble king outside a Sept.

A horn sounded, and Master Godwin held out his arms.

"Here in the sights of Gods and men, we are here to ascertain the guilt or innocence of this man, Roto, son of Riler. May the Mother grant them mercy, may the Father give them such justice as they deserve, may the Warrior guide the hand of our champion to victory, just as the Smith may grant them strength. May the Maiden guard their daughters, may the Crone grant them wisdom, and may the Stranger embrace them readily."

The horn sounded again, and the Maester withdrew to the balcony, upon which, my King, Aeron, sat, watching me with the eyes of a falcon. He smiled and gave a curt nod, which I returned. I took my helmet from my squire, Tom, and turned towards Roto, all skin and bones. I placed my helmet over my red hair, and held out a hand for my sword. Tom handed it to me, and I strode halfway towards the rat before halting, breathing steadily as I waited for him to charge. The lad didn't even have any armour, the dolt.

I didn't picture him as a Baratheon. No, I didn't use that rage that I reserved for Ryleigh. Instead, I saw him as a foreign invader – a man without honour. I imagined him as this Ser Edgar Sand. I imagined that he held Dawn aloft as he began to charge at me, letting loose a barbaric war cry. As if he was a Dornish savage.

He came closer, and once he was within reach, the sword raised above his head, he brought the blade down, aiming for my helm. Fool – the sword would only dent a Kingsguard Knight's helm. I bound my longsword against his, grazing it so it fell down to the ground, and countered with a riposte, the edge of my blade puncturing his throat. I felt the small judder down to the hilt, telling me I had reached the top of his spine.

I took a step in, grabbing the boy's shoulder. His eyes were wide and full of confusion, his sword clattering to the ground as his body began to convulse. I then wrenched the blade backwards, withdrawing it from his neck and standing aside, letting him fall onto the floor. I looked up to King Aeron, bowing my head as the Grand Maester Godwin stepped forwards again, signalling for the applauding crowds to quieten down.

"The Gods have made their will known!" He announced. "And in doing so, they have announced who our one true King is. Aeron of House Targaryen, is beyond reproach, the chosen representative of the Seven in this world."

 **Oooh…** **Well, quite a bit has happened here.**

 **You guys want to know a secret? Evie's part was only meant to be a tiny little bit but I kinda got really into writing her and it turned into 2,000 words…**

 **So guys… it's the finale next time. The next chapter takes place in King's Landing, The Vale and Braavos, and is named '** _ **The Final Lesson**_ **'.**


	30. Loyalty and Duty

**Well… here we are. The finale.**

 **I just want to thank everyone who's stuck with this story – I know there's been a bit of a lull lately, but these stories can get tiring when juggling them with work and studying and stuff, so I appreciate everyone who's still reading.**

 **I can't stress enough about how much support you guys have given and how much it means to me. It's a heck of a lot, and it's why I've opened up this story from revolving around The North and King's Landing to include the Stormlands, the Riverlands, the Vale of Arryn, Dorne and also Braavos.**

 **When this series concludes, I've got a ton of projects I want to work on. But, I'm considering writing a short prologue to this series, based four or five years before** _ **aCoB**_ **. The other idea is based a while before that but… well, that's getting ahead of myself.**

 **Without any further ado… the final chapter.**

 **Finn Snow – The Drowned Town, Braavos**

The sun beat hotly overhead, making me wipe the sweat from my brow. I shuffled behind the rickety wooden scaffolds for cover as I examined my target, who meandered out of the decimated orphanage. He walked with purpose, a hand resting on the hilt of his rapier. I'd hoped to catch him unarmed, but Belos Vollys was experienced enough to know one must always be armed. It was one of the first lessons he'd taught me when I first began my tutelage.

The make-shift marketplace had been cleared out – too many people nearby meant more casualties. Mikko stood on the other side of the square, a cloak and hood to conceal his face. I'd wanted to deal with Belos on my own - no-one else needed die but Belos or I. But Mikko disagreed. He was my friend. My brother.

He began to walk closer to me – another moment or so, and he'd surely be close enough for me to slip out of cover and plunge my knife into his gut – just as Hilario had done to me on his orders.

But… he stopped. I peered through the cracked planks and so Belos look around, taking several steps back and gripping the hilt of his rapier. His eyes scanned the handful of citizens and he pulled down his hood, revealing that worn face and dark hair.

"Mikko!" He shouted, alerting everyone in the marketplace. I cursed to myself – everyone was paying attention to him, which meant it would be hard to get close to him without anyone paying mind to me. "Come to avenge your friend?" He faced Mikko, who took off his hood. "A Dothraki screamer sticks out amongst Braavosi." He declared. Mikko stayed silent, his hand on the blade of his arakh. "Finn Snow is dead. I saw the poisoned blade pierce his belly. More death will not bring him back. I plead with you, do not be so eager so as to join him."

The arrogance! Feigning peace and mercy after betraying me? I felt a beast in my chest lurch and I moved from behind the scaffolding, shoving my way past the townsfolk and letting Belos gaze upon me.

"Damn you to hell, traitor!" I bawled across the square.

"Finn?" He took a step back, brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of this. "I saw you die…"

"You hung me out to dry!" I bellowed.

Belos straightened up, trying to conceal his shock. I should have attacked then – I should have taken advantage of the situation, but I wouldn't. I wanted him to look me in the eye and confess to his betrayal. "I did," he nodded, "but only for a greater purpose. More than greed or envy; the poor would have eaten for years thanks to me. In the past years, all you have done is drink, fight and fuck. I will try to remember you as you were," Belos drew his rapier, "when something like a heart beat beneath your breast."

"We fought together, Belos…" I took a step forwards, "don't that mean anything to you?"

"It means everything to me!" Belos looked to Mikko, then back to me, "How many widows have you made in aim of gold and glory? How many orphans? You'd pray on the rich and poor alike."

I drew Hilario's rapier, pointing the blade at him "Not unlike your Many-Faced God, in that light."

"Know your place, Snow," Belos growled, a snake-like grin carving it's way across his mouth as he opened his arms, "Slope back to your whore, bastard. You've not the steel for my trade of torment…"

I knew what he was doing. He wanted to goad me – he wanted me to forget my training and act on pure emotion. I knew that was what he wanted, but it didn't mean I could control myself.

I let out a roar and charged at him, slashing wildly. Our blades bound together, sliding and screeching like some sort of steel serenade. Mikko jumped over one of the tables with his arakh and began to slice and chop at Belos, who dodged, managing to spin away from my own blade in turn.

Whenever Belos and I had him cornered, he would manoeuvre around us so he was back in the open again. I'd let out a hiss and charge again. Mikko sliced high as I lunged low, but Belos parried my blade and ducked, grabbing an oyster from the table behind him and throwing it into Mikko's eyes. Mikko stumbled back, wiping his face as I moved in front of him, protecting him in case Belos took advantage. Instead, Belos simply panted, wiping sweat from his face.

"It seems some of my lessons made it through that thick head of yours."

"You've brought this on yourself, Belos," I tried to keep my tempers cooled.

"I did – it seems I'll have to slit your bastard throat this time."

I lunged at him – badly. I missed, and his rapier sliced through my jerkin, drawing a measly measure of blood from my waist. It was meant to aggravate me.

"What you did was wrong!" I shouted, touching my wound.

"Coming from a scoundrel like you?"

Mikko jumped forwards, slamming his arakh down. Belos rolled out of the way, ducking beneath Mikko's wild swipes again and grazing his arm with the point of his rapier. I bounded across, sliding under Mikko's swipe and placing myself between the two. I blocked Belos' lunge and shoved him back, sending him stumbling into one of the tables.

"There _is_ goodness in you, Snow!" Belos insisted. "If you could only choose not to see it as some sickness… as some disease…"

I strode towards him, "Rot in hell, shitbird." I feinted to the left, then jabbed my blade into his thigh, jumping backwards to dodge the pommel of his rapier. He let out a hiss, grabbing his thigh.

"You act as though I have wronged you. How many men have you killed? How many women? How many more must die for your damned greed?"

"Just one," I feinted towards him, and then rolled out of the way as Mikko stepped in behind me, letting loose an onslaught of flurries. Belos would not block the blade, only guide it in another direction, but Mikko was a giant of a man – a Dothraki. The speed and power of his strikes was staggering as he shouted and yelled in Dothraki curses. It was a rage that he reserved for battle.

Belos grabbed Mikko's wrist, twisting it around and Mikko let out a howl as Belos slammed the pommel of his rapier into Mikko's chest, throwing him to the table, which cracked under his weight. I began to sprint across the courtyard, trying to arrive before Belos' rapier found Mikko's heart.

Belos raised his rapier.

I grabbed the hilt of my knife and flung it forwards. It spun through the air.

Belos leant backwards, though the knife scratched across his cheek and ear before clattering across the floor. I jumped forwards, wielding my rapier like an arakh and swinging it into Belos' hasty defense. He stumbled backwards and I managed to land on my feet. I steadied myself, looking back to Mikko, who gasped and panicked for air. He was still alive though – Belos had not drawn blood.

"What about Hilario, bastard?" Belos flourished his blade. "Will you seek him out too?"

"I settled my debt with him last night."

Belos' eyes widened, and he gulped, looking at my blade for the first time – Hilario's blade. I saw his hand tighten around his rapier as he took a breath. "Then his soul is only a little way above us. Perhaps we shall both accompany him."

"I'd settle for one of us," I growled, flourishing my blade and using the momentum to slice at Belos. He'd lunge for my head, scratching my ear and neck. I'd swipe for his neck, catching his shirt and chest. Blood was speckled upon the tables and the cracked stone tiles below us.

I rolled backwards from Belos' lunge for my leg, landing on my back. Belos lunged again, and I rolled away, finding my knife, which I picked up, holding close to my body.

"You're no better than a graverobber…" Belos shook his head, wiping the blood from his nose, "stealing the legacies of better men!"

"A damn sight better than you! A snake, who believes himself better than others!"

"You'd say I'm not? What have you done since I taught you to wield a blade?"

"You sold me downriver!" I ran at him, his blade glancing off mine as I swung it around to his head, the flat side of my blade hitting his head as he stumbled away, waving his blade at me as he held his ear. I panted, wiping the blood from my mouth. "You took the egg for yourself!"

"For myself?" Belos shook his head. "I gave it to the people."

"What people?" I spat the words at him.

"The poor," Belos stated simply. I looked at the orphanage, and then let my eyes fall down to the ground. Belos hadn't even killed me for his own greed – he'd killed me to help other people. Hundreds of people he'd probably never meet… He'd given up my life for them. He'd known me for years… "How sorry you are, that you cannot imagine a man that fights for something beyond himself."

"You betrayed me. For them?"

"You'd set Braavos alight if it meant a single pretty coin," Belos raised his rapier to point at me, "I should have killed you long ago."

Upon hearing those words, the beast inside me roared again, and I charged at him. He lunged at me, but I batted the sword away, thrusting towards his stomach and slamming my head into his upon his parry. I leant away from his riposte and threw a fist into his chest. I took a step back, and then lunged.

Belos grabbed my wrist, and leant his knee onto the flat side of my blade until it snapped in half. He shoved me back into one of the tables, which I fell over. I hurled the hilt at him, which scratched across his arm. I then threw my knife at him, which sliced across his leg.

I hurdled over the overturned table, and wrapped my arms around him, tackling him into one of the cracked pillars, launching fist after fist after fist into his face. Then, something stung my eyes. I staggered backwards, the sugar burning as I frantically wiped my eyes. Then, my sight returned – I saw Belos charging at me, pouncing forwards with a lunge.

It was instinct. I leant to the side, wrapping my hands around the blade. He had made one fatal error – he'd over-extended in his lunge. I pulled the blade away from him, feeling it slice into my palms as I spun away from him, then turned back to him, thrusting the point into his stomach with a sickening squelch. He grunted, a hand grabbing my shoulder as he let out a shuddering breath. I moved my hands to the hilt, and pushed the blade further in, gritting my teeth. Finally, I wrenched the rapier from his gut and slashed it across stomach, letting him fall to the ground.

I gasped for air, rubbing my eyes again, and looking at the blood that seeped from my palms. No citizens were left to see this. All there was, was the hot sun and the birds calling in the distance. Belos pulled himself up to his knees, looking at his stomach, the blood spurting from the entrails which began to peek out of the small slit from his breast to his hip.

"Don't expect me to start weeping and beg for forgiveness…" he panted, "You've done a number on me, Snow."

"You came 'tween me and my prize," I said hoarsely, my voice torn and bitten from the fight, "that's not a thing a wise man does."

Belos nodded as he began to pull his body back towards one of the overturned tables, "Proven true," he gasped. "In time, I hope you'll understand why I did it. Every man comes to realise how little of a mark he's left on the world. Helping those who need it… that's the best mark a man can hope to make." He leant against the table, picking up one of the tankards, and finding it empty, save the few drops of amber rum. "Still… you've persevered. Great skill and determination… saving your friend…" his eyes lay on Mikko, who had began to find his feet, clutching his wrist, "I suppose I should be proud, in a way. A piece of me may live on."

"You bested me in the vaults, Belos," I crouched down, "but I used my rage, and I steeled myself." I looked down at his blade in my hands – the ornate gold hilt, and the finest steel blade. The one that used to bat me on the head and behind my knees when I was sloppy during our sparring sessions. "Know this: you helped carve a victor out of a villain."

Belos let out a ragged breath. "So it would seem," he groaned, "Taenara…"

"Taenara?" I looked around, finding no-one there, "The girl?"

"Leave her… don't…"

"You think the girl matters to me?"

"You're one of the finest students I've had," Belos coughed, wiping away the blood from his lips, "If only you embraced that goodness inside you…"

"What do you know of goodness?" I hissed, "A man who tried to kill me? My friend?"

"Sometimes, friendship is not enough. We all have our duties."

"The duty to kill those who trust us?"

"We must do what we believe is right."

"Wrong! We stand by those we call friend, no matter the consequences!"

Belos let out a gargling cough, though it resembled a chuckle, "You fight like a devil, but you're still that boy that stepped off the ship four years ago…" He grabbed my shoulder, "She has no-one. Just as you once had no-one. Let her go. Don't condemn her to more of this…" I looked down upon him – a master of water-dancing, the First Sword of Braavos, the figure of legends and songs, a man who I'd come to think of as… he thought I'd hunt down the child to kill. "I must have meant something to you once…"

"Aye, you did." I knocked his hand from my shoulder, "but now the world's free of one more rat," I straightened up, "And I'll sleep better for it."

 **Ser Edgar Sand – The Hand's Chambers, The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

The Lord Hand's chambers were vast, filled with all sorts of finery and wooden interiors. We were not as pretentious in Dorne as to give the chief advisor of our ruler a title and silver broach, but I had been in Lord Lucian Lannister's position back in Sunspear. I scoffed as I looked out of the window, upon this wretched city.

Lord Lucian remained seated at his desk, scrawling upon a piece of parchment. "You disapprove of my chambers?"

I shrugged, "The air is a little thin here. In Dorne, we prefer to breathe in the sunlight."

"How lucky you are that it never rains in Dorne," Lord Lucian leant back in his chair. "His Grace intends to appoint you to the Kingsguard once you prove yourself."

"Of course he would…" I walked to sit down opposite Lord Lucian, "he seems… careful."

"He is. The attempt on his life has made him wary of outsiders…" Lord Lucian thumbed his chin. "How do you intend to proceed with Ser Mikal?"

"I have begun my designs…" I replied, pouring myself a cup of Dornish red. "Ser Mikal will not live long. Nor shall Aeron."

Lord Lucian nodded, "Nothing can happen before we have another monarch in place."

"What about this… Prince Viserys?"

"Viserys and Visenya would continue the war against your homeland. No, it needs to be someone… more agreeable."

"And easier for you to control?"

Lord Lucian smiled in response, "If only to benefit you."

"I don't like you Westerosi… you all mince your words."

"I've heard of some men in the North who may disagree with you…" Lord Lucian muttered. "Though, Dorne is part of Westeros."

"Part of the land, yes." I sipped my wine. "How do I know that I can trust you, Lord Hand?"

"I do not follow?"

"You're plotting the murder of your regent. How do I know you will not turn on me?"

"The Seven Kingdoms are in turmoil. Storm's End and Winterfell have been razed from his anger. And my daughter was… he could have killed her."

"Did he?"

"He could have. And I expected him to. Is that a good king?"

I nodded, pondering his words. "And should you betray me?"

Lord Lucian exhaled, "Well, I suppose you'll endeavour to… draw up designs, should I choose to."

"Indeed. Also…" I traced my finger around the rim of the wine cup, "my brother, Lord Vorian, is a general for the Dornish armies. He can often react… hastily, when aggrieved."

"Now who's mincing their words?" Lord Lucian smiled. He poured himself a cup of wine and held it aloft. "To our mutual benefits."

I knocked my cup into his, "And all the good it shall do." I sipped the wine, keeping my eyes on him. "So, shall we seal this alliance in a more pleasurable way?"

"You are not in Dorne anymore, Ser Edgar." He looked back to his parchment. "I have to procure journey east."

"East? There are some fabulous brothels in Braavos. Perhaps I could recommend one?" Lord Lucian glowered at me. I rolled my eyes and put down my cup of wine, "How expectedly dull…"

 **Aeron Targaryen – The Royal Apartments, The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

"Are you sure?" My queen, my rose wrapped her arms around me.

"She seems more… agreeable." I nodded. "I trust that, with a constant guard, your sister may be allowed to conduct herself as any Lady of the Court."

Delyth pressed her small petal-shaped lips to mine. I ran a hand through her beautiful, soft hair. She pulled away, "Let us go and tell my parents. They'll be so thrilled!"

"I'm afraid I have business to attend to. I shall join you at the feast."

She nodded eagerly, pressing her lips to mine again before rushing off in a fit of glee. I liked making her happy – She was… good. I wished that I had known her longer ago. Perhaps I wouldn't have spent as much time with Laena and her awful jibes.

Laena… she had proven herself loyal when I needed family most. But there was something uneasy in the back of my head… she had tormented me for years. Feelings did not change that much… but I did not need her approval, or her love. She could think whatever she wanted, but as long as she was obedient, she could conduct her affairs as usual.

The door opened, and in sauntered the Lady Theadosia Bolton. I frowned, picking up a gold cup of Arbor gold. "You were not announced."

"I have my ways of not being seen." She replied, a smile in her eyes as she advanced towards me.

"I do not doubt it…"

"I intend to leave tonight."

"You do?" I couldn't mask the disappointment in my voice. I had grown so fond of her. She was not from a life of privilege and finery… she was different to everything in King's Landing, or anyway south of the North, for that matter. She was not like Delyth. She was knowing, dark, and utterly entrancing. Like a moth to the flame – there was something that was so awfully tempting and bewitching about her. "Then… the next time I see you, I shall find you as Lady Flint."

"How stimulating…" she rolled her eyes, "I suppose you shall be occupied with your own family."

"Gods willing," I smiled at the prospect. Delyth was my wife – the mother of our unborn child. She was the rest of my life. The future, the beginning of our very own dynasty. But Theadosia was the present. It was all the tempting hatred… it was the pleasure of indulging in sin.

She came closer to me, placing a hand around my neck. I could make out the small freckles across her pale cheeks. The large, feline grey eyes. She leant in, and pressed her plump lips against mine. And when we kissed… something crackled through my lips and down my bones. My hairs stood alert, and my skin trembled as her fingers dug into my scalp.

I pulled away, "My Lady, this is not…"

She took the small knife from my desk, and cut the laces of her corset, slipping off her kirdle and gown. Her body was… awe-inspiring. I'd tried not to think about it, but the curves of her hips, the contours of her skin across her ribs and to her breasts with nipples painted on like tulips. She placed a hand on my chest and pushed me back to the bed.

 **Theadosia Bolton – The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

It was dull. Straddling him, feeling him inside me… I clenched the knife, imagining striking the veins in his neck, and letting blood gush all over me. The thought spurned me, and my hips bucked further. I wanted to peel his eyelids. I wanted to reach inside his chest and squeeze his heart until I felt it cease with it's pumping.

But I could not. Not without a baby in my belly. Many saw women as weak – but we held within us a power greater than any other man. Dyanne Baelish of the Fingers could have become Queen if she had the stomach to pursue it. But she did not. I would ensure my family's stability. If the Starks took the Dreadfort, I would take Aeron's armies, and march North to take it back.

As I felt his grip tighten on my hips, he began to swell. But, as I felt him lurch beneath me, the doors opened, and in walked a woman. Dark, golden-burnt hair, falling to her waist. Warm, amber eyes like Aeron's pretty little fool. She had Aeron's high, sharp cheekbones that cut out from her cheeks. Delicate bowed lips, her frame was thin and tall, with large breasts like my own, though her hips were not as curved as mine. She looked to be into her fifth decade, though it crossed my mind for her to join us. After all, her blood was aged – older nobles had more to live for than peasants – they'd struggle under my knife more.

"Aeron?" She raised an eyebrow, closing the doors behind her.

Aeron sat up, looking to the woman in a hot sweat.

"Mother?"

 **Julian – Gin Alley, King's Landing, The Crownlands**

I awoke gradually, rubbing my head as I sat up, looking around. _The Yawning Doormouse_ … it was strange to find myself here again. Why was I… Then it hit me.

Roto.

I sniffed, looking around my another tankard of ale, finding none but empty cups. Roto was gone… he was really gone. First my father, then Riler left, now Roto… The forge had closed down as well. Riler had sold it before leaving. I had nowhere to go, and nothing, save the longsword and dagger I had taken before leaving the forge.

"They seek you."

I looked up at the voice. A child stood there – a child we'd heard of a lot in the slums. Dania… she was a witch-child, or something of the like. Olive-skinned and oval-faced. But her eyes were large – too large to fit on her face. Dark and brown. Most people had a pattern to their eyes – streaks and bubbles, but hers were just… brown.

"Leave me be, witch-child."

"They seek you, Champion," she repeated, "You are the one that is needed."

"I said, leave me be."

"Do not mourn him, Julian." She remained standing, staring at me, as if she were in some kind of trance. "He has escaped a more terrible fate. As has your father."

"What?" I stood up, clutching my head, "What did you say about my father?"

"Your mother's lover killed her lover. But he would have burnt… just like she will burn. We shall all burn."

"You'd threaten my mother?" Her face did not move, and her eyes stayed fixed on where I had been sitting. "Speak sense, witch…"

"You shall die soon, Champion. But not here. Not in King's Landing. In a blaze of ice and-" She gasped, turning to the doorway and staring intently for another moment. "They are here."

"Who?"

"They've come for you Champion," she grabbed my hand, muttering under her breath in strange tongues. I wrenched my arm from her, stumbling back into the table.

"Have you cursed me? You've fucking cursed me…" I moved to exit the alehouse, my head spinning and my eyes wincing at the sunlight.

Gods… I thought I was going to hurl. I covered my eyes from the sun, and from under the shade of my palm, I saw a pair of men down the street. Goldcloaks. Though, their armour was muddied and dulled. It hadn't been polished in a while. I frowned… vague memories of Goldcloaks in the alehouse last night… tucked away in the corner. What made me anxious, however, was how their eyes were fixed on me. They didn't look anywhere else.

"They are here." I looked to see the witch-child beside me, looking at them. "Seek Baelor. Seek the wolf. He shall guide you."

I looked back to the Goldcloaks, who began to advance towards me.

"Why do they want me?" I looked to Dania, who just stared into space, unmoving and unspeaking.

I took a breath to steady myself, and muster some energy. I prayed I wouldn't throw up, and ducked into the nearest alley, running a fast as I could towards the Sept. I heard shouts from the men, and began to hop over the small walls, taking the shortcut Roto used to escape the City Watch when he stole from the markets in his youth.

I arrived at the Sept, making my way into the nearest crowd, and wiping the cold sweat from my forehead. My eyes darted around, looking for a horse, or a cart. I opened my purse, looking to find… a single gold coin. That wasn't even enough for a whore at the _Goldfinch_.

I continued pushing my way through the crowds, until I found a cart – right next to the statue. Several people sat in the back – whoever owned the cart might've been persuaded to let me join.

The man threw saddlebags over one of the spare horses, stroking it's neck. He was an elderly man, tall and wiry with grey hair shorn short, clad in a black leather jerkin and even thicker cloak. I came closer to him.

"Is this your cart?"

"Aye, it is," He spoke in a low growl, cracked and stout. A Northerner.

"I need to book passage to Oldtown…" I checked to see the Goldcloaks weren't near.

"Can't help you lad."

"I've got gold. And my uncle owns a forge there…"

"I can't take you to Oldtown because I'm not headed west."

"Where are you headed then?"

"North."

I bit my lip. "Well, how far north?"

"As North as North goes," he chuckled. I saw a flash of gold through the crowds, and covered my face, stepping into the man's shadow. He stopped saddling the horse, and turned around to look at the City Watch, then back to me. "Goldcloaks after you?" I kept quiet. "What are you then? A thief? A raper?"

"Neither," I spat the words at him. He laughed.

"Don't get touchy, lad. This one's done just as bad," He slapped one of the men on the back.

"I've not done anything wrong!" I protested.

"Alright, if you say so, lad… Seven Hells, I've probably done worse…"

I frowned, looking at his black garb. "Who are you?"

"Kenn Stark of the Night's Watch."

"You're a Stark?" I blinked. A Lord was in front of me – a real, fucking Lord.

"I was. Fourth-borns don't have much luck anywhere else but the Wall." He chuckled. "Not too warm, but you get a bed, some ale and food." He looked back to the Goldcloaks for a moment. "You know… if you're in trouble lad, they'll find you. My advice is to get out of here as soon as you can."

"I'm trying…"

"You got any more gold?" I shook my head. "Well, no-one's going to take you on for free." He stroked his ragged chin. "If Goldcloaks are after you…"

"Can I ride with you? Just for a bit?"

"Sorry lad, Oldtown's a way off for me. And this is strictly for men of the Night's Watch."

Stark. The sigil for the Starks was a Direwolf. The witch-child said that the wolf would guide me. I never wanted to join the Night's Watch – of course, they were an ancient, noble order. But… no women, no family, nothing. I'd be consigned to live there for the remainder of my life. But if I didn't leave then, would I have much more of a life? Even if I escaped… would I make it to Oldtown?

"Can I join?"

He laughed. "Forgive me, lad, but I don't think you've put too much thought into this…"

"I don't have much of a choice."

"It's funny how often people use that to justify their actions…"

"I want to join – you have to take me, don't you?"

"Not particularly…" He narrowed his eyes. "Why are they after you?"

I licked my lips – if I told him, would he turn me in? I didn't have much else to do but take my chances. "My cousin tried to murder someone important."

"A Lord?"

"Something like that."

He nodded, looking back to the Goldcloaks again, who began to advance towards us, eyes searching for me. He grabbed my arm, and pushed me around the cart, putting me up on it, and taking the cowl off another man and shoving it over my head. "Now I'll tell you again, Lambert," He shouted loudly as the Goldcloaks looked over to us, "You're joining the Night's Watch! You lost a bet, and you're going to fucking honour it!" He gave me a wink as the Goldcloaks began to walk across the courtyard once again, away from us.

 **Rowen Arryn – The Eyrie, The Vale of Arryn**

The Vale was large and wide. Hilltops covered with trees that had sprouted centuries ago from the rocks. It was in that wilderness where one of our greatest defences lay – the Hilltribes provided a nuisance that would raid any of our would-be invaders. It was for this reason we had not wiped them out. Though they kept our roads dangerous for the unwary traveller, they were a necessary evil.

Within the Eyrie, there was the main atrium. Our ancient throne room, with a throne carved from the stone of the mountains we lived in. Behind it, was the balcony that showed us the land we had defended for generations. Land we would continue to guard.

"My Lord?" I turned around to Ser Pylan, "The horses are ready."

I gave a nod. "Lady Lily and I shall accompany. Sarissa," I turned to my youngest daughter, "you shall be the Lady of the Eyrie and of the Vale in my absence. You represent our house and our land, and shall act accordingly." She gave a small curtsy.

"My Lord…" I turned to Ser Pylan.

"Yes, Ser?" His eyes were beside my face, gazing into the distance. I turned around with him to see a dark cloud approaching.

No, not a cloud…

Wings flapped powerfully, a dark and fearsome creature letting out a deep bellowing – like a coming thunderstorm. It was the largest thing I had ever seen – a titanic demon from above. It rumbled through the skies and stretched out it's talons, to land on the balcony. It's long leathery wings spread out, the talons clutching onto the pillars on other side, blocking out the wind, save for the small scratches in it's wings.

The snout was long – bigger than my daughter Lily, in all her armour. Dark ruby scales, with golden horns ripping their way from within it's body. It let out a hiss, and began to snarl as the men reached for the swords, moving away.

And then it stopped. I held out my arms for the men to stop moving, and we heard a voice.

" _Lyks, Broxagon_." The dragon growled some more, looking around, sniffing heavily. The eye that faced me was old, rippled and full of rage and fire. " _Raqirossa…_ " The dragon set it's wings down and turned to the side, and through the sunlight, we saw him.

Viserys Targaryen. A young man, with a large scar across his eye. His silver hair was that of all Targaryens, straight and swept in the wind. He was clad in a simple black jerkin over a scarlet shirt, with the silver three-headed dragon broach upon his breast.

" _Gīda_ …" he crooned softly into the dragon's ear, " _Sȳz_ …" He unbuckled the chain from the beast's saddle and dismounted onto the balcony of the Eyrie, looking at the terrified knights of the Vale, before settling his eyes on me. He bowed his head, "Lord Arryn."

"We were expecting to greet you at the Bloody Gate, Your Grace…"

"That would be too public," Viserys began to walk towards me, rolling his eyes over the knights of the Vale. "The last time my bastard brother heard of my alliances, he razed their keeps to the ground. So," Viserys stopped in front of me, pulling off his gloves and tucking them into his belt. "Shall we?"

 **Well… that is it. The end of** _ **A Realm of Ashes**_ **. We're officially halfway through the series. That's right – I plan on writing 2 more books because… there's too much stuff. In fact, I may even need to split the last instalment in two purely because of the shift in tone…**

 **A massive thank you to everyone who's kept on with this story! I hope you're all enjoying it, and you guys reviewing is what has kept me writing!**

 **This chapter took a while to write because I just kept adding to it. So, let me know…**

 **What storylines are you most looking forward to?**

 **What are your major plot point predictions to happen in the next instalment?**

 **What theories/plot twists do you want to predict?**

 **As you all know, I like to give a bit of information about the next story. It will be released… soonish – I need a couple of days to touch up the storylines and detail them so it's as immersive as this instalment. But I can tell you this – the first chapter will follow up the War in the North, Aeron in King's Landing (as well as some Ser Edgar) and also Julian on the Kingsroad.**

 **Check soon for when I upload the first chapter of…**

' _ **A Reign of Chaos**_ **'.**

 **R.**


	31. Sequel: A Reign of Chaos

Well, the latest instalment is finally started! Follow the link below to continue with the story!

R.

12982206/1/Three-Heads-of-the-Dragon-3-A-Reign-of-Chaos


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